


Strange Magic

by wrathwritesfanfic (leviathan_wrath)



Series: FFXV Dating Sim: Run [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ficlet Collection, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Side Stories, reupload, run au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-21 12:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15557790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathan_wrath/pseuds/wrathwritesfanfic
Summary: An AU for the FFXV reader insert, "Run." The premise is:What if you didn't grow up alone in the Spire of Duscae? What if you grew up with your royal charge in the Citadel, instead?





	1. Dear Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, this is a giant collection of various things: from romance-specific writings to random AU tidbits. I'd highly recommend reading this _after_ you get caught up to about chapter 15 in the main story for context. Please read each chapter note for warnings etc. This collection also features a polyamorous route which is indicated by "Bros" before a story title. Also, there's a poly route included at the end of the "Endlessly" ficlet because it was requested.
> 
> This first ficlet was, of course, also a request.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Second Hand Shame, Intense Tense Flippage, Mild Angst, OOC Galore, All About that AU, Corny as Hell

** Dear Hearts  **

The transition from Spire life to Citadel life was probably a tad more stressful on you than any of your caretakers thought it would be. But it was a situation of their own making. Having only known the Spire for the first six years of your life and to be suddenly shipped off to a strange place with strange people, you cried every night.  It was to be expected. You were just a child, after all.

What made it worse was that your mother was no longer two doors away for you to run to. It was a good thing that phone bills were of no consequence to the king because you called your mother twice every day and would do everything you could to keep her on the phone as long as possible.  If anyone was looking for you, all they had to do was follow the sound of your voice. 

A funny thing about you. Everyone knew you cried yourself to sleep and yet you put on an act for your mother, pretending that you were having a _grand_ time and you _loved_ the Citadel and blah, blah, blah. Your little voice carried down the halls with the tall tales you would tell.  This was mostly done for your mother’s benefit. She always sounded so sad on the phone. 

Regis had a difficult time with you for the first couple of weeks of your change in residence. You were remarkably slow to warm and so suspicious for someone so young. It was like you glared for days on end. You glared at everyone and everything _except for_ Noctis.  Regis wanted to laugh at your almost immediate protectiveness of the prince -- an Iovita through and through. 

At first, during your introduction, you were wary of the prince. Without your mother to shield you, you had pulled the collar of your dusky wool sweater up to your eyes and peered at the prince over it. Noct had smiled at you, dug into his pocket when he took in your unease and handed you a candy. 

The sweet was tiny, even in his small hand, and wrapped in bright pink foil. When you hesitantly took it from him, brow furrowed, it was warm from both being in his pocket and from being held in his sweaty hand. It tasted like strawberry and vanilla.  It was one of his favorites, kept in bulk in a crystal dish on Regis’ desk. A dish that, after that moment, was almost _always_ empty when the king would go to his office. He even locked the door. That’s how you learned to pick locks. 

For Noct, befriending someone had never been so easy. Too bad it was the only time you would ever have your defenses lowered. It was a sweet moment... Until Regis realized Noctis was literally the _only person you would talk to_ after that.  Any interactions with others, Noct had to be there. Noct had to be the go-between, relaying whatever it was you whispered in his ear to others. 

“Um... they need to pee.”  


“Can you pass them the pepper?” 

“(y/n) wants more strawberry cake.” 

You were happier in the prince’s company, sure. But the nighttime crying didn’t stop and your codependence was unseemly for a future advisor. Even as you two got into trouble dirtying up the Citadel with you having Noct digging around in the garden with you, the crying never stopped.  For the first month, Regis didn’t know what to do.  The mageling was inconsolable and unhappy with the infrequent visits from their mother (though, in reality, it was the most Decima Iovita ever visited the Citadel in her entire life), they barely ate and hardly slept. And none of the Spire workers who came along with you were of any help. 

The king didn’t expect that when you were brought into the Citadel that you would come equipped with what amounted to a library of books, a squadron of Spire-trained maids and magisters, and a gallery of eerie Iovita ancestral portraits to be hanged in your room (Regis was reluctant to have those put up, actually). 

But back to the workers.  After each received a thorough background check, they all sort of backed off from you in the sort of bizarre asocial way that was typical of scholarly elites. Regis knew he would get no help there (honestly he was at his wit’s end and was tempted to have them all kicked out, especially when he saw a few of them straight-up avoid you). He had to take matters into his own hands. 

Though he was loath to cross that line... he began to _parent_ his friend’s child.  Honestly, he didn’t expect you to take to him like a fish to water. He expected resistance and maybe a few temper tantrums on the rare occasion that he scolded you when you were rude to a magister.  Any small show of affection from the king was eagerly reciprocated by the mageling and he soon found little gifts appearing at his desk and on the nightstand by his bed. Even _if_ the door was locked... 

“(y/n), what did I say about picking locks?” 

“Sorry, Uncle Reggie...” you’d say if there weren’t others around, otherwise it would be, “Sorry, Your Majesty.” 

He’d struggle to hide a smile. Then he’d thank you for the gifts you left behind, which _hardly_ discouraged you from breaking into his room or office to leave more for him to find.  Among the items, he would find: clumsy drawings, flowers from the garden, and random items that you filched from around the Citadel and enchanted for him.  The enchanted items included a pair of candlesticks that made the room cooler for whatever reason, a set of plates that would hover and spin around when music played, and a toothbrush that always shot out of his hand when he tried to pick it up. 

Regis was absolutely stunned that you were _already_ enchanting things. Though the quality of those enchantments was dubious at best, he didn’t discourage you. This resulted in luminescent flower crowns and animated toy soldiers that patrolled his bedroom door at night.  Reggie was a _little_ unnerved by the latter.  But he wore the flower crowns. 

You were so, _so_ sneaky after you finally warmed up to the king. Those manipulative little frowns to get more sweets, those big eyes made for getting out of scoldings. And it only got worse as you got older and refined your “skill.” However, that “skill” started being used to work others to the royal family’s benefit. Y ou consistently proved to be a beacon of comfort for the royal family. 

If there was one thing Regis never ceased to find amusing, it was how fiercely protective you were of him and Noctis. Even if someone of higher rank than you took a tone with Noctis, you were spitting venom their way like an easily agitated viper.  Regis had even had a few complaints from Clarus Amicitia over how you “bullied” his son. Though the king’s Shield “filed a complaint” with a straight face, Regis could tell he was dying laughing on the inside. 

They’d had many a conversation about how you were this bizarre mix between the three Iovitas who had a hand in raising you. You had your mother Decima’s poise, your aunt Lysandra’s hotheadedness, and your grandfather Tacitus’ cold, almost cruel severity.  But you had your own gentleness. A gentleness that seemed reserved for the king and the prince. Your humor was specifically for raising Noct’s spirits and bringing a bit of levity to Regis after a long day. 

Alongside your reputation for being fiercely loyal to the Caelum bloodline, the reputation you would have developed had you been restricted to the Spire still grew: Studious, serious, mysterious, and _strange_.  Some things don’t change even with a change of scenery.  Especially since, despite your housing and Regis’ wishes, you were immersed in your studies on a near constant basis. As per your mother’s demands, you didn’t attend public school and you were under the tutelage of the magisters that were sent along with you to Insomnia. 

And sometimes you would go back to the Spire to visit your mother and to have progress reports done to make sure you were on track.  It was on one of those trips that you first met _him_.  You were walking around the Spire’s grounds and you inevitably found your way to the greenhouse (your favorite place). A man with burgundy hair and golden eyes was tending to a tomato plant, looking absorbed in the work, before he turned to you with a curious expression. 

Looking back, you laugh at how scripted it all seemed. That perfectly “startled” expression that he sold and that your nine-year-old self easily bought. There was something oddly familiar about him and you found yourself promising to meet him every time you visited the Spire.  And after he so effortlessly made you laugh, you did. “Do you work here?” You’d asked, cocking your head to the side. 

“I visit sometimes,” he’d replied with an easy, charming smile. “Always in the hopes of meeting the young Iovita mage.” 

“For me? Why?”  


“To befriend you, of course. I _am_ your Uncle Ary, after all.” And he did befriend you.  Uncle Ary only came up vaguely during your brief chats about your Spire visits once you returned home to Insomnia. Noctis had half-jokingly warned you about befriending strange old men the first time you mentioned him. So, when you suddenly stopped talking about Ary, no one noticed.  Life moved on. 

Your borderline-obsessive personality with a scholarly dash flourished under those conditions: Spire-brand training in the Citadel and at the Spire itself. But Uncle Reggie was always there to gently pull you away from your studies with desserts and walks around the garden.  And Noctis was always there to have you slacking off with video games and movie nights (though he refused to watch horror movies with you after you had him watch _The Grudge_ and he made you sleep in his bed for nearly a week after), especially since you let him gorge on junk food.  That last part got you in hot water on a few occasions. 

“His Highness mustn’t be allowed to eat things like this,” Noct’s other advisor had scolded you, holding out a half-empty bag of chips with an empty soda bottle in it rather accusingly toward you. 

You’d rolled your eyes into the back of your head at that, missing the way Ignis Scientia’s cheeks colored at that dismissive gesture.  “Give me a proven account of someone _dying_ from eating Doritos and then get back to me, Scientia. Otherwise, when His Highness is in my company, he’ll eat whatever he damn well pleases.” 

“You’re being completely irresponsible, Iovita. It is our duty to make sure-” 

“The prince enjoys his childhood before he has to undertake the immense burden of ruling a kingdom,” you interrupted, mimicking the older boy’s voice. “Yes, I agree. That’s the most rational thing you’ve ever said, Scientia.” 

Ignis’ cool demeanor made it easier for you to get along with him when you two first met, despite your differing views on Noct’s diet.  He didn’t approach you with fear or contempt in his steady emerald gaze, plus you two had the mutual goal of Noct’s welfare in mind. And he would drive you to libraries all over the city if you asked nicely and even out to watch films. Unlike Noct, he didn’t mind horror. 

But the older Amicitia boy who orbited Noct?  It became an accepted fact of life that the arcane-advisor-to-be and the Shield-in-training would butt heads almost _constantly_ that everyone got to a point where they just ignored it. It would take a few years for you two to grow out of this dynamic.  You _hated_ Gladiolus’ tough-love sessions. And if Noct gave you even a _hint_ that Gladio used excessive force during training, there you’d go storming over to the gym to practically kick the door down and hiss:  “Let’s go, Amicitia. You and me. One on one.” 

“The hell are you goin’ on about _now_ , Magey? That eager for me to kick your ass?” 

Noct and Iris were the only ones who didn’t abide yours and Gladio’s bickering. Noct quickly tired of you constantly running to his defense like he was a child and Iris agreed with you that Gladdy should back off of Noct some. Iris quickly became your ace in the hole.  Though you could sometimes sucker Gladio with your eyes (a strange development that you didn’t question), Iris’ puppy eyes were proven 100% effective against Gladiolus Amicitia. 

Though you were still very much a hermit, befriending Iris was surprisingly easy and honestly one of the most rewarding friendships of your life. The little Amicitia adored Noct, so you two had that in common, and she was always sweet enough to give you a cavity just by being in her presence.  Plus, she tended to ease your nerves around others. 

Everything went smoothly between you and Noct’s other advisors, his other friends, aside from the occasional clashing of strong personalities. You all worked seamlessly together to support the prince. Living together, you got to teach Noct how to master his magic -- switching from friend to advisor easily.  Everything was peachy. Until he got into high school. 

The blond menace... _Prompto Argentum_ proved to be a bump in the road. You, Iggy, and Gladio had _words_ once about the boy over lunch when Noctis was at school. Ignis thought he might be a bad influence, taking the prince to the arcade and generally aiding Noctis in slacking off. Gladio agreed. 

You, on the other hand, looked beyond your initial jealousy (“You have a... best friend? I thought _I_ was your best friend...” “(y/n), I can have more than one best friend.” “But...” “Gosh, don’t look at me like that. You’re my _first_ best friend. How’s that?” “Don’t just tell _me_ that. Let that little homewrecker know, too!”). 

In Prompto, you recognized a lonely spirit.  And Noctis certainly seemed to enjoy the blond’s company, so what could it hurt? However, you needed to introduce yourself and subtly make it known that if he hurt the prince, be it physically or emotionally, well, you’d be taking him on a one-way trip to PainTown, Population: Prompto Argentum. 

“(y/n), please. Don’t threaten him,” Iggy sighed as he put away the portfolio on the blond boy. 

Gladio pointed out, a smirk on his face, “And that _doesn’t_ sound as intimidating as you think it does, Magey. ‘Population: Prompto Argentum?’ That’s so lame it’s almost painful.” 

“What? I thought it sounded pretty good,” you murmured, stirring your tea a bit more aggressively than necessary. “Something really intimidating, then... Should I say: ‘I’ll take you to PoundTown? Population: You and me, goin’ at it?’” 

Ignis choked on his coffee, droplets of caramel-colored liquid spraying on the table. He apologized profusely as he wiped down the table and cleaned himself off, though his once pristine white shirt was ruined. The bespectacled young man cleaned his glasses just so he didn’t have to look at you.  “Yeah, say that one!” Gladio encouraged, only to get the deadliest glare _ever_ from Iggy. 

When you finally got around to introducing yourself to Prompto (you tailed Noct and Prom to an arcade when they skipped class, murmuring under your breath, “These little shits!”) the blond was starstruck.  The majority of your thinly veiled threats went right over his head as he openly gawked at you and your staff before Noct irritably told you to knock it off with being so damn overbearing. 

“I’m Prompto!” The blond eagerly introduced himself, taking your hand with a big grin and a bright blush. And you tried to ignore how sweaty his hand was for his sake. “It’s great to meet you! Noct’s told me a lot about you and I learned about your family in class and I saw you in the news when-” 

“Please _breathe_ ,” you sighed and rolled your eyes, still with that haughty air, “you’re stressing me out.” 

“O-Oh. Heh. Sorry. I’ve... just wanted to meet you for a while but Noct always said you were busy.” 

Despite yourself, you cracked a smile at his abashed expression. Your smile morphed into a full-on grin when the blond noticed your smile and went a million shades of red in the span of a second. Dammit. You _liked_ him. How could you like your _rival_?  This all happened under Noct’s amused gaze. 

Had you grown up in the Citadel alongside your prince, you would have traded a lonely childhood for one filled with strange rituals:  Late nights playing video games with Noctis and Prompto, having them unable to sleep due to your penchant for horror films. And you would eventually lie and say you put a ward on the bedroom door and windows so daemons and other evil creatures couldn’t get to them. 

“Listen, I made this ward specifically for Freddy Krueger. He isn’t getting through this spell.” 

“You sure?” 

“Uh-huh. Now go the hell to sleep.” 

Afternoons spent looking for Noct with Ignis, you blasting the radio and Iggy saying he needed the volume lowered so he could see better. And evenings spent with the bespectacled young man in libraries or movie theaters, pouring over novels and pointing out mistakes in films. 

“That’s completely impossible. Had anyone actually jumped from that height and landed in that manner, their legs would have broken.” 

“Oh, yeah. Totally.” 

Weekends trying to intimidate Gladiolus into being softer on Noct only to have each altercation end in a duel. And weeknights spent daring each other to eat weird junk food with Iris giggling when one of you inevitably started gagging at the taste of something truly hellacious. 

“Just eat it! What? Are ya scared, Magey?”  


“Iris, if I puke I’m aiming for your brother.”  


“Ha! _Ew_! But I’ll be pretty impressed if you can actually hit him.” 

“Hey!” 

And brunches consisting of tea and cakes with your Uncle Reggie, emphasis on the cakes. Regis pretty much had the finest tea and cakes brought out for your weekly brunch and the garden would always be particularly beautiful. You two would talk about everything and nothing. 

“Are you happy here, (y/n)?”  


“Of course, Uncle Reggie. I couldn’t be happier.” 


	2. Joyride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _AhhhhhhhhhhHHhhhHHHHHhh! I need more of that Citadel Mage AU!!!!!!! How about Noctis and [y/n] (and maybe Prompto depending on what age you wanna make them) stealing the Regalia keys from Ignis (or straight up hot wiring it lol) and going on a joy ride? Please? /puppy eyes_
> 
> Not really any key stealing but Iggy is mentioned. You’re sixteen in this and the joyride is maybe shorter than you would’ve liked...  
> For this AU Noctis stays living in the Citadel instead of moving out to his own apartment and Prom spends the night sometimes. Short, sweet, and nothing but nonsense. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Driving Without a License, Learner’s Permits Count, Persuasive Blonds, Bad Flirting, Obvious Teen Crushes, Y’all Are Dead, OOC Regis, AU-ception

**Joyride**

“Thanks. As usual, I’ll bring you guys back some delicious garbage.” 

“Remember: _Be safe_.”  The guards give you pointed looks. All three of them are already accustomed to your antics, having been assigned to you by Regis since practically the moment you started living in the Citadel. They’re almost family at this point but there’s still that barrier of formality that can never be surmounted. 

You shrug and sigh rhetorically, spinning the keyring around your index finger, “Aren’t I always?”  The keys are cold in your hand, metal biting into your palm when you reflexively tighten your grip. A quick glance at your watch shows you that it’s just a little past midnight. Your steps are muted in the hallway, a skill you initially practiced just to sneak up on Noctis. It’s come in handy a few times. 

_Oh_ , the juicy gossip you’ve overheard.  Who’s dating? Who’s fighting? Who thinks Noctis is cute? Sometimes you’d divulge said gossip to Uncle Reggie during brunch in the garden and he’d sigh and say, “(y/n), please. You know my stance on gossip.” Then he’d stir some sugar into his tea, add a dash of milk, take a sip and murmur, “ _Go on_...” 

When you get into the garage to take the Regalia down the road for a late-night junk food run, you pause.  Though you’ve done this a million times, “bribed” the guards for the keys with the promise of gas station nachos, instant noodles, Ebony, and candy... you _know_ that your Uncle Reggie knows you do this. Still, you appreciate the illusion of independence.  Regis knows you can get a little stir crazy. 

Yet on the many quiet nights that you’ve carefully driven the Regalia to the gas station that’s just a little _too_ far to walk to, you’ve never done it when Noct has had his hellion blond staying the night to burn their little eyes out staring at the TV playing video games. Leaning against the doorway, you narrow your eyes.  Though Uncle Reggie knows you borrow the Regalia, you’re pretty sure he _doesn’t_ know Noct and Prompto are trying to hot-wire her tonight. 

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” The prince hisses at a pair of legs that hang out of the driver’s side, his back to you. He’s leaning his hands against the Regalia so that he can peer down at where the blond fiddles with the panel covering the ignition. 

Prompto’s voice is muffled and a little strained, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m _good_ with tech! And this is just... kinda _advanced_ tech?”  He’s half-curled on the driver’s seat, hips partly on the edge of the seat, head wedged under the steering wheel and attempting to unscrew the panel with a screwdriver that’s way too small. Guess he’s working with what he could find in the garage. 

“And what exactly do you little shits think you’re up to?” You drawl, making your voice clear and cutting even though you keep it low enough to not draw unwanted attention. When Prompto yelps and hits his head on the steering wheel, you close the door behind you. 

Noctis rounds on you and does an amazing job looking calm even as Prom scrambles out of the Regalia like a cat that just got sprayed with water, rubbing the side of his throbbing head.  The prince scowls at you, blue eyes hooded, as he counters, “What do you think _you’re_ doing here, (y/n)? Don’t you usually go to sleep around ten?” 

“So, we’re answering questions with questions? I love this game,” you deadpan and walk over to sit on the Regalia’s hood to better scowl at the flustered boys. 

“U-Um...” Prom barely squeaks out. 

You note that they’re fully dressed in black like they’re about to rob a bank or something. Honestly, you feel a little underdressed in the exercise clothes you typically wear when you spar with Gladio. “Why are you screwing with the Regalia?” 

Noct cuts his eyes to Prompto, knowing you better than the admittedly intimidated blond, and orders, “Don’t answer them-” 

“We want to get to a new fast food restaurant’s grand opening,” Prompto admits with a boyish smile and an embarrassed blush, “it, um, opens at midnight and the first one-hundred customers get free burgers for a year.” 

You give the blond a deceptively sweet smile and simper, “See? Was that really so hard?” When Prompto returns the sweet smile, you lean back on your hands and state, still smiling, “I’m telling the king.” 

“ _(y/n)_!” Noct groans, genuinely irritated with your antics.  He knows Prompto isn’t exactly your _favorite_ person since you’re still sore about him being Noct’s best friend and all, but Noct knows you have a soft spot for the blond that you pretend isn’t there. Still, he can’t be too sure if you’re going to rat them out or if you’re playing yet another cruel joke.  In the past, you’ve played _many_ a joke on Prompto. 

And yet the blond insists on hanging around you (“H-Hey, Noct? Is (y/n) gonna come with us to the arcade?” “Do you want them to?” “Heh. Yeah.”). Noct wonders if his best friend is just a glutton for punishment or if he can see through your callous veneer as easily as the prince can.  Other times he wonders if there’s something _weird_ going on between you two. “No! Please don’t!” Prompto begs, looking distressed. 

“How _dare_ you rope the sweet prince into this plot, Mr. Argentum,” you tease, eyes gleaming evilly under the fluorescent light of the garage. Tilting your head, you survey him coolly, take in his widened blue eyes and barely quivering lower lip. You tut, “I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance.” 

“H-Huh?!”  


Eyes roll dramatically. “ _Relax_ , Blondie. It’s a joke. It’s from this film where- ah. Never mind.”  If you have to explain the joke, it’s no longer funny. You and Ignis had watched this melodramatic film noir together just the other week where a character said that exact line. Though in context the line made sense, the delivery was downright atrocious and so flat that it had you choking on your popcorn. 

On the drive back to the Citadel, Iggy had asked if you picked up extra Dots for Noct like he’d asked. When you said you hadn’t, he’d side-eyed you and said, completely serious, “I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance.” Though he was amused by your hysterical laughter, he was less thrilled by the soda you spat all over the dashboard.  Now it’s an inside joke between you two. Whenever one of you does something the other doesn’t wholly agree with, you say, totally deadpan, “I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance.” The two of you have loads of inside jokes borne from B-movies and blockbusters.  But back to the two wannabe hot-wiring dorks. 

“You don’t have to be a jerk, (y/n),” Noctis scolds.  And he doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe he’s a glutton for punishment, too? Because he immediately knows that the second he takes a harsh tone with you over _anything_ , even over you picking on Prompto, even if you _deserve_ to be reprimanded, Prom is quick to come to your defense. 

“Hey! Don’t be mean to (y/n)!” Prompto snaps, right on schedule. The blond’s eyebrows are knitted together, cornflower blue eyes slightly narrowed, and you’re sitting on the Regalia looking like the cat that ate the canary. And _this_ is why Noct is _convinced_ that something weird is going on between you two. 

“I have the keys, by the way,” you snort once Noct stops glaring at you. To show that you aren’t bluffing, you pull them out of the pocket of your sweats and dangle them in the prince’s face like string for a cat to play with. “But you two keep on trying to hot-wire the Regalia. I wanna see how this ends.” 

“Wait. _You_ have the keys?”  


Confused by the prince’s aghast expression, you confirm slower than molasses, “Uh, _yeah_.  Sometimes I take the Regalia out past midnight.” 

“What? The king lets you borrow the Regalia?” 

You don’t know that Noct has asked to borrow the Regalia numerous times only to get the almighty: _No_.  Though Noct immediately jumps to assuming that it’s a trust issue, it’s actually that Regis has received numerous progress reports from Ignis Scientia explaining that although you listen to music at an unholy volume, you’re a _great_ driver.  _Noct_ on the other hand...?  Let’s just say that there’s a reason he only has a learner’s permit. And although it was stressful as hell for you to get a license, you mostly learned to drive in order to impress Ignis (the one who taught you) and get junk food at your own leisure.  But Uncle Reggie doesn’t know that. He thinks you’re just a motivated and highly responsible young mage. 

So, not understanding Noct’s frustrated expression, you go on to explain, “The nearest convenience store that sells slushies is too far to walk to, and I-” 

“You take the Regalia out for joyrides over _slushies_?” Noct scoffs.  


Crossing your arms, you huff, “And taking her out for a spin to get to a lame-ass fast food restaurant  grand opening is _so_ much better? Excuse this _peasant_ , Prince Quarter Pounder.” 

“Calm down, guys,” Prompto sighs, always the voice of reason. He runs his hand through his golden hair before turning to the prince and coaxing, “(y/n) having the keys is a _good_ thing, Noct. They can drive us to the-” 

“ _I_ can drive. Give me the keys, (y/n),” Noct demands, hand stretched out to you, palm up, expectant.  Something tells you not to do it.  This little voice in your head that typically warns you against doing dumb crap- a voice that sounds a lot like your mother on some days, Iggy on others, but tonight it sounds like Uncle Reggie. Fingers drum on the cool metal beneath you, lips purse, and you sigh. You’re a sucker for those blue eyes.  Always have been, always will be. 

The keys reflect the fluorescent light as they sail through the air. Noct catches them with a smirk and is in the car and starting it up before you can blink.  “Shotgu-!” Prom freezes the moment his eyes lock with yours while you slide off of the Regalia’s hood, “Ah... You can take the front seat if you want to, (y/n).” 

“What a _sweetheart_ ,” you sing. As part of your usual routine, the radio is turned on and cranked up practically the moment your butt hits the seat. Eyes lock onto Prom’s in the rearview mirror once he slides into the backseat. You wait until he’s buckled up to tease, “Maybe I should reward  you for your kindness.”  


He goes red and murmurs, barely audible over the music, “M-Maybe you should.” 

Eyebrows pop up at that. “ _Wow_.” At Noct’s suspicious look you poke the raven-haired prince’s shoulder and gibe, “All right, prince. Take us to your shitty grand opening. They better serve slushies or at least milkshakes or I swear to Ramuh you’re in for it.” 

“Whoo! This is gonna be so fun!” Prompto crows from the backseat, done blushing and sweating at your suggestive words. 

“Chill. It’s just a car ride,” you snicker and click the garage door opener that’s attached to the driver’s side visor since Noct is busy adjusting his mirrors and the car seat. 

“Okay,” Noct sighs once he’s ready and puts the car in drive, “let’s go.” 

Noct pulls out of the driveway and onto the main street where he promptly makes a hard right, takes the curb, and crashes into a fire hydrant.  The silence in the car is thick enough to choke on, even with the radio still blaring. Noct’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, Prompto’s soul has entered another plane of existence, and you stare blankly at the water that jets out of the busted fire hydrant before hissing, “I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance.” 


	3. Thanks, Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little thing that I wrote up. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, The Mildest of Angst, OOC Regis, Intense Tense Flippage, Mages Say the Darndest Things

** Thanks, Dad  **

King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII. Such a lofty name. Such a weighty title. Such a mouthful for a little mage. To you, the monarch has _always_ been "Uncle Reggie,” even all the way through your teens to early adulthood. Though certainly a very familiar way to address him given the fact that the two of you are in no way related, it still rings with a hint of formality. It almost seems to serve as a barrier or to at least reinforce one, considering that in polite company he’s back to being "Your Majesty" and "My King." 

And as he’s watched you grow and come to think of himself (a bit wistfully) as a father figure to you, that barrier of formality becomes a thorn in the king’s side. Regis thinks of you as his own child and he knows how impudent that must seem, considering he wasn't a guiding force during your early formative years up until age six. It’s why he doesn’t reveal this to Decima and only said it once in passing to Clarus (“I worry about them as if they were my own child, Clarus. Now, please tell me _exactly_ what Gladiolus said. How many rats are they keeping in their room?”). 

If Aulea had lived... If he’d had another child, Regis could only ever hope that they would be like you. So accomplished at such a young age. So dutiful and spirited. Regis so admires you and is thankful to have you as his son’s arcane advisor and cherished childhood friend. He tries to make his appreciation known in different ways, big or small; allowing you to have your moped in that garish yellow color (he only suggested it be painted black _once_ and didn’t push it), importing all sorts of exotic sweets for your tea times, and simply taking you aside when you’re studying and telling you how proud of you he is. 

You love him so much for it. Everyone knows of the mage’s undying love for their king. Hell, for a little while you withdrew from Noct when you were a little mageling because you were jealous that Regis was his father and not _yours -_ \- jealous that he even had a father while you didn't. Then when Noct entered puberty and got a little mouthy with his father, you’d go running to Regis’ defense, taking aside Noctis and telling him he should apologize. “You don’t understand how lucky you are to have a father like His Majesty, Noct.” Maybe that was an annoying thing to say in the moment, but Noct always knew you were right. 

If ever there's an argument between father and son, you're torn in two and struggling to make peace. Usually, with kids, they can always count on their friends to back them against alleged parental tyranny. It's the only time that it can be argued that you fail Noctis as a friend. Such a _suck up_ , says Noct, and you never fail to pout in response, even as an adult. He says it now when your lessons are interrupted by a member of the Citadel's staff informing you that the king has a gift for you in his office and to come at your earliest convenience. 

Everything (and everyone) is dropped and you rush out of your room before the worker has even got  the last syllable out, calling over your shoulder to the prince that he'd better not even _think_ of ditching your herbalism lessons. Said prince is sat at your plant-laden desk, misty-eyed and a bit slack-jawed, bored to death of staring at plants in your incense-choked room with its dim lighting and blackout curtains. For someone who wants a pupil’s 100% undivided attention, you sure do know how to set a sleepy atmosphere to get you the exact opposite of what you hope for. 

The heels of your boots click against the smooth floor that’s so finely polished one can see their own reflection in it. Early-morning sunlight streams in through the many windows in the Citadel’s corridors, warming your skin and brightening your mood. Hell, just the idea of a gift from your Uncle Reggie is enough to make your day and you have no idea what it is that he could have for you, considering he always makes sure that you want for absolutely nothing. 

In his office, Regis goes over various infrastructure proposals with a fine-toothed comb. Though there are separate departments for this work, these projects are high-priority and thus need his seal of approval. Too bad “high-priority” doesn’t mean the projects aren’t dull. The documents are choked with technical jargon and Regis finds himself re-reading the same line a few times before pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a long pull of his coffee. It’s black. You’ve got him in the habit of drinking his coffee black. “Sophisticates do it,” you’d said, nose in the air. At his nonplussed (and exhausted) expression, you’d added, “Plus, with a shot of espresso, it’s like I can see into the future. My productivity goes _through the roof_ , Uncle Reg.” 

Regis smiles at the memory even as his face struggles to form a grimace at the bitter taste. Reflexively, his eyes dance to the small book off to the side on his desk. It had been such a chore trying to find the damn thing that you’d only mentioned in passing. A rare copy of your ancestor Aela the Banisher’s manifesto on the atrocities committed by the Spire. The institution in question had had the majority of the copies in circulation burned, but Regis was able to find a collector of anti-Spire literature who was willing to part with the piece once she knew it would find its way into the hands of (y/n) Iovita. Of course, Regis had her paid handsomely for it, but it was heartening to hear of supporters for the Iovita family even in the most remote corner of Leide. 

A sharp, polite knock rings through the tidy office and Regis snaps to attention. It’s a simple one-two that’s as firm and prim as the mage who does it. Straightening his back, which was stooped with fatigue and frustration, Regis calls, “You may enter.” 

Immediately the door swings open and in you strut; chin lifted, shoulders pushed back, and hands clasped behind your back. There’s an excited gleam in your eye that makes Regis bite his lip in an attempt to hide his grin. You’ve always been such a sucker for gifts, especially the spontaneous kind. Subconsciously, Reggie timed how long it would take you to get across the Citadel from your quarters to the opposite wing where his office is housed. It’s a new record. Sometimes he wonders if you can actually warp despite how you scowl sourly and insist that you can’t. 

“You called for me?” 

“Yes, (y/n). I have something for you,” Regis informs when you widen your eyes and raise your eyebrows expectantly. He waves his hand to tell you that he wants you to close the door behind you. After you do so, stepping further into the office to stand before his desk, Regis pushes the small book across the desktop toward you. At your puzzled expression, he explains, “It’s a handwritten copy of Aela’s manifesto. Do you recall telling me about it a few months ago over tea?” When you nod, looking a little awe-struck, Reggie chuckles, “Well, now you have one, (y/n). A bit of your family’s history.” 

Like you’re handling a glass figurine and not a leather-bound book, you carefully pick up the manifesto. It smells musty with age and your breath catches in your chest. “This is amazing! I didn’t think you’d even remember this since I only mentioned it _one_ time. How thoughtful.” You examine the book with a wide grin, running your fingertips across the delicate first page where your  great great grandmother’s slanting calligraphy boldly signs her name to something so slanderous. Mind buzzing with anticipation over what these pages hold, you say absentmindedly, “Thanks, dad!” 

The world freezes. 

Noct is rather informal when it comes to addressing Regis. He’s never called Regis "father." It was "papa" when he was young, then it was "dad," and now he says "pops" or "old man." So, your word choice comes as no surprise. The only surprise is that you say it _at all_. With your heart in your throat, you slowly raise your eyes from the manifesto to Regis. He’s as still as a statue in his high-backed chair. The two of you stare at each other for what feels like a century. When Regis' eyes start to get a little damp, you turn your face away and laugh, "Well, uh, thanks again. This gift really means a lot and I’ll cherish it forever. I’ll see you later, uncle. Noct's lessons await." 

And then you exit quickly without being dismissed, leaving the door open a crack in your embarrassment-fueled haste as if you just called your teacher “mom.” All the while, Reggie only hears one thing ringing in his ears over the sound of your hasty departure: The sound of you calling him “dad.” It sounded so easy and natural. It sounded so genuine, as if you’ve said it a million times before. The king’s heart swells at the hopeful thought that you, too, think of him as a father figure. With a soft chuckle, he returns his gaze to his work. Regis wears a huge smile as he continues to sign off on and read through menial bureaucratic paperwork.


	4. Endlessly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Wrath? When you've got some time, could I request an extra little peek in to the 'Dear Hearts' AU, please? :) I'm kind of curious as to how the romances bloom in there, between MC & all the Chocobros (& the harem route, if you think one could happen in that AU), considering we grow up with them. :D I'd be ok with a ficlet or just some HCs, or however you want to go about it. <3 Thank you for taking a moment to read thiiiis. <3_
> 
> You're still awkward as hell but your sneak factor got amped up from having Spire _and_ Citadel folks around. There are multiple parts, so you'll have to scroll down to find which route you want (i.e., Noct, Prom, Iggy, and Gladdy). Also, because it was requested, there's a polyamorous/multi-route version, too. It's at the end.
> 
> Take a gander at how your romances would've developed had you grown up in Insomnia. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Violence, Sexual Content, Semi-Public Sex, Intense Tense Flippage, Dry Humping, But You Can’t Dry Hump Away From Feelings, Fluff and Angst, No Luna Shade Y’all, OOC Galore, Running Away Isn’t a Good Coping Method, Awkward Blonds, So Sappy, Mutual Pining, But Too Dumb to Realize it’s Mutual Pining, All the Tropes, That Escalated Quickly

**Endlessly**

** Noctis Route**

When you were afraid, he had held your hand in his. Those blue eyes had looked at you without judgment and you had felt safe. He always knew exactly how to calm you down; indulging your sweet-tooth to soothe you, squeezing your hand comfortingly to ease your nerves. Noctis knew you better than most.  Even when you were kids. Even _now_. 

You’re as thick as thieves. The prince loves to spend time with the funny mage who always has a special treat for him or some fancy magic ready at their fingertips for his viewing pleasure. You play off of each other. And nobody makes you laugh quite like he can; head thrown back, tears in your eyes.  Maybe you should both laugh at yourselves every once in a while. Because while you get jealous of the time he starts spending with Prompto Argentum, the prince starts to grow leery of your frequent movie outings with Ignis Scientia. 

You’re both remarkably selfish sometimes. Remarkably dense, too. 

“Why are you mad at me _now_?” You sigh one night, coming in from watching a movie marathon with Ignis. It was a special at the theater that kept you two out until midnight. Exhausted, you shoulder open your bedroom door only to find the prince sitting on the foot of your bed with a sour expression on his face. 

Noctis scowls, lower lip slightly pouted. “I’m not _mad_. I was just worried.”  


“Which is why you’re trying to burn a hole through my head, right?” You quip, shrugging off your jacket as you enter the room. “Gods, it’s freezing outside but it’s hot as _hell_ in here.”  Layers of clothing are removed until you’re in nothing but pants and your sleeveless undershirt. Something stirs in Noct’s gut as he watches you disrobe. The movements are oddly captivating. The way your cotton button-up slides off of your shoulders to reveal skin, the way the undershirt clings to your torso... 

The prince shifts uncomfortably before standing and making his way to your door. “Anyway, glad to see you’re home safe. Night.” 

“Goodnight, weirdo,” you call after him, one eyebrow raised at how he exits so stiffly. 

Somewhere along the line, the prince and the mage start to become something more.  You’re seventeen and smiling at Noct as he busses tables at his part-time job when it clicks. You actually say, “Oh, _no_!” aloud, drawing the attention of a few of your fellow customers. At first, you think you’ve just got it twisted -- you _hope_ that’s the case.  “I mean, I don’t like him like _that_. You know? But I don’t like him like a brother or... or even a _friend_ , for that matter. Because it feels _different_ ,” you confess to Ignis. 

Your bespectacled friend and fellow advisor is a bit nonplussed, considering you start word-vomiting to him about your bizarre new feelings toward Noct, completely unsolicited, in the middle of an action film. The brunet slowly turns his head to look at you.  Orange lights flash across his face as a car explodes on the silver screen. “I’m sorry? Where is this coming from?” One look at your dejected and embarrassed expression and Iggy sighs. A hand rests on yours, stilling it from dipping back into the popcorn. Emerald eyes soften. “I’m sorry.” 

He’ll be telling you this again a few years from now, hand on yours once more, when the engagement is announced.  But in this moment, he gently probes, “What were you saying? I’m afraid the explosion was a bit too loud and you were drowned out.” 

However, the moment has passed. Too much time has elapsed between your confession and Ignis’ reception -- just a few short seconds, but enough to have regret creeping up on you. Smiling, you chuckle and wave him off, “Nothing. I was just being dumb.” 

And the tactician will remember this moment.  For he feels like he failed you. It will haunt him when you walk the corridors with a fake smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It eats away at him when you eventually leave the Citadel and return to the Spire after having endured all manner of oblivious people needling you about the “happy news.”  The ill-fated romance is kicked off by your pleasantly hidden temper. 

As usual, you’re butting heads with Gladiolus. It’s the typical fare: He said something a bit careless to Noctis and you snapped back with a threat and an amiable smile. Gladio doesn’t take it seriously. He’s used to it by this point. But Noct? He reacts differently than normal.  There’s no roll of his eyes followed by a scoff and a complaint for you to knock it off.  Because now there’s something new thrown into the mix. The prince finds himself feeling ashamed that you’re defending him. Do you think he’s still a child whose feelings need to be coddled? He’s eighteen, not eight! Why do you still treat him like he’s a _kid_? 

What happens next is discussed at great length by Gladio and Iggy.  Noct is usually so even-tempered that emotional outbursts are virtually unheard of. They’re concerned. But when they look at the whole picture, namely _who_ got such a reaction out of him? The pieces fall into place. It’s in this way that only Iggy, Gladio, and Prom ( _of course_ ) come to know of the relationship. 

“Whatever, Magey,” Gladio snorts after you threaten to ‘banish him to the shadow realm,’ “we both know that-” 

“Why do you _always_ have to pick fights with everyone?” Noct cuts him off, steely blue eyes fixed on you, unblinking. He’s so livid that he’s gone pale. His jaw is set, teeth on edge. You and Gladio are stunned. Noctis never interrupts your banter. And it’s _just_ banter! It’s not as though fists are about to fly. 

You shoot Gladio a glance and he shrugs, just as lost as you. Confusion quickly gives way to offense. “I’m not picking fights. I’m _protecting you_.” The uneasy feeling of confrontation has the gym’s walls closing in on you. The urge to turn and run is stifled by pride and a desire to find out why your friend is so upset. 

Noct lifts his chin. “I don’t need you to protect me.”  


“Well, too bad,” you snort, crossing your arms, “I _want_ to. Plus, if you forgot, it’s _my job_.”  That last bit is like a dagger in the prince’s gut; painful and mortal. It’s always been an insecurity of his. Though you two grew up together and he knows your affection is real, sometimes he wonders if it would exist at all if you weren’t duty-bound. 

“Why are you always so-” The prince cuts himself off but you aren’t having it. 

“So _what_?” You push, heat creeping up your neck. From the corner of your eye, you see Gladiolus glowering at Noct. Stomach clenches. Before he even says anything, you know you aren’t going to like the next thing that comes out of his mouth. And you’re right. You’re _so_ right. 

“ _Annoying_.” At your hurt expression, Noctis shakes his head at himself. “No, I- that’s not-”  


“I understand.” Surveying him coolly, you uncross your arms and bow your head formally. “Since  you find me so annoying, I’ll make myself scarce, Highness. Good day.”  Turning on your heel, you leave the gym. Stride is kept even, chin is raised, and expression is stoic. At a glance, no one would know that you’re feeling sick to your stomach. You look like your usual arrogant, unaffected self. A true Iovita right down to the core.  Once you’re gone, Gladio punches Noct’s shoulder.  


Over the next couple of days, Noctis has a hard time finding you.  You do a bang-up job of making yourself scarce. Having knowledge of every secret passage and shortcut in the Citadel makes dodging the prince child’s play. He can’t even find you in your _room_. That’s because you take to sleeping in a study in another wing entirely.  It’s when you’ve ducked into your room to collect some fresh clothes that he finally catches you. With your pants around your ankles, you can’t run. But, boy, you sure do try. Which is how you end up face-down on your floor in nothing but your underwear. The prince bites his lip to keep from laughing at you.  He’s here to apologize, after all. 

“Please, don’t run. I need to talk to you.” 

Cautiously, you stand, pull up your pants, and hastily put on a shirt. Gods, your nose hurts. Honestly, you’re surprised it isn’t bleeding. You watch warily as Noctis sits on the foot of your bed, looking all woebegone while _you’re_ still feeling particularly chagrined, before you walk over and sit next to him.  The prince is slow to speak. This annoys you. Through pursed lips, you spit, “Well? _Talk_.”  


He flinches at the acidity in your voice. “About before. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.” 

“Then why did you say it? Never say what you don’t mean. If I’ve taught you one thing, it should be _that_.” You pause, thinking of all the times you’ve lied to people. All the times you’ve used that silver tongue and weaved tales. A scowl darkens your face. “At least, not with each other.” 

Blue eyes peer at you from beneath dark bangs. Lips quirk in an almost imperceptible smile. “All right. I promise.” 

Just like that, the animosity is gone.  It’s always like that with you two. Petty to the extreme but able to get over it so easily just to be around each other once more. Leaning back on your hands, you eye the prince up and down before querying, “Why’d you get so upset, anyway? It’s not like it was the first time Gladio and I screwed with each other.” 

“It’s just-” Noct sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I’m tired of you treating me like a kid. I have a job and other _adult_ responsibilities, you know.” 

You reach over and pinch his cheek. He slaps your hand away with a scowl, pale cheek now a pretty pink from that assault. “I _know_. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop defending you, Noctis. I lo-” You choke on that confession. It gets lodged in your throat and is almost the death of you.  Your life flashes before your eyes. For his part, Noct looks worried. Obviously, he didn’t catch on to what you almost said. He adjusts on the bed so that he’s sitting facing you now. The prince asks if you need water or if you need him to pat your back.  Tears in your eyes at that near-death experience, you lie, “Sorry. Tickle in my throat. Anyway, like I was saying, I love fighting with Gladio.” 

Dark eyebrows knit together. Noctis has the distinct feeling that that wasn’t what you were going to say. “Yeah.” 

After that unsatisfying non-confession, the tension between you two amps up dramatically. Unresolved tension has a habit of doing that. It also has a habit of manifesting in funny ways. For example, you two wind up playing a dangerous game. It’s called... Chicken. And you’re both terrible at it.  Because in a game of Chicken, _someone_ is supposed to swerve. But you two are hellbent on colliding. 

Teasing questions are asked and answered. Pretty blushes are exchanged for demure smiles. Hands touch and eyes look away. That “best friends” dynamic starts to shift slowly to “budding romance” until you both impatiently smack it and send it careening into “desperately making up for lost time.”  And maybe you two are.  Because you certainly don’t get to be together for very long. 

“Have you ever been kissed before?” You find yourself asking your long-time friend one evening as you sit in his room, playing video games with him. You’re kicking his ass splendidly. Nothing new there. 

Noct spares you a glance, mouth going hot and dry. Gods, even that simple question has his heart beating erratically. It’s almost pathetic. “Yeah.” 

“Your father doesn’t count, Noctis,” you tease and cackle when he elbows you in the ribs. 

With red cheeks he snaps back, “Have _you_?” 

“Of course.” Nose is stuck up in the air. “I’m irresistible.” 

Though the raven-haired prince certainly agrees with you there, he can’t help the bit of panic that flutters in his heart. “That time you ran into Specs doesn’t count.” 

“Ha! I’m sure Iggy’ll beg to differ with you on that one. It was _very_ intimate.”  


He squashes his jealousy long enough to sass, “Yeah. I always envisioned my first kiss involving  a lot of blood, too.” 

“How _dare_ you.” You can’t even keep a straight face before you’re throwing your head back and howling with laughter. The game is paused so he can’t cheat. “You little shit! I told you that in confidence! Not for you to throw it back in my face later!” 

Noct is grinning now, all of his jealous little thoughts dashed away by that laugh that he loves so much. “I’ll throw it in your face whenever you get a big head about it and act like it counts as a _real_ kiss.” 

“Psh!” Eyes return back to the screen and you un-pause the game. Tension is in the air, however.  Because you asked a question and, yes, it _was_ answered, but that answer wasn’t enough. It awakens something different that all of the previous teasing questions didn’t rouse. Maybe it’s the dim lighting in the room? Maybe it’s the late hour or the fact that you’re all alone while everyone else is asleep? 

“ _Pause_ ” flashes across the screen just as you’re about to perform a finishing move on the prince’s character. Turning toward him with some snark on your tongue, you freeze at the sight of his expression. Those steely blue eyes are unblinking, hooded, and intense. His gaze is downright simmering.  That snark turns into a meek, “Is everything okay?” 

Without a word, the prince puts his controller down and scoots closer. His hand is on the floor between you two. Putting his weight on that hand, he slowly leans toward you, blue eyes flickering down to your lips. Noct pauses when the distance is halfway closed. With a jolt, you realize he’s waiting for you.  The longer you dally, the more his insecurities rise. Just as he’s about to lean back and play it off as a painfully awkward joke, you close the distance. Nose brushes against his cheek and you raise your hand to cup the side of his neck. Instinctively, he leans into your touch, sighs into the kiss. 

After a long moment, you pull away and he tries to follow. A hand on his chest keeps him at bay. Eyes dart around the dark room before you blurt, “Maybe we should lock the door?”  The word “lock” is barely out of your mouth before the prince is scrambling to stand up and hurrying to the door. It’s an effort not to laugh at him. A snort escapes you when you hear him fumbling with the lock. He gripes for you to stop making fun of him. It’s so phlegmatic that you’re thrown into hysterics. 

“Shut up,” the poor prince grumbles, sitting on the bed. 

Once you’ve composed yourself, you pull yourself up onto the bed and shoot him a taunting look. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop laughing at you, dork.” 

“Why’d you want the door locked, anyway?” He asks shyly, cheeks flushing as he says this. 

You shrug. “For privacy.” 

“Privacy for what?” 

Eyes roll dramatically. “So I can beat your ass at this game, Noct. Why do you think? Gosh, you’re making this more awkward than it needs to b-” 

His lips are back on yours both to shut you up and because he enjoys the feeling of having you so close. Noct savors the smell of you, the feel of you. He burns your warmth into his memory and you do the same. And the two of you get carried away.  Hands find their way to sensitive places -- groping, palming, squeezing -- before you pull away once more.  It seems you’re the one taking the initiative but Noct secretly wants it like this. He wants you to be the one to move things along because a small part of him fears that if _he’s_ the one to push, you might feel compelled to do as your _prince_ tells you. So to Noct, it’s a mercy when you say what you want.  It’s also surprisingly arousing, too. 

“Take your clothes off- Not all of them, though! I just...” you flush when you realize how dark his eyes are. Swallowing hard, you finish, “I just want to feel you.” 

Everything you’re saying has him getting harder and harder. Still, he hesitates and asks, “You sure?” 

“Yes.”  That breathy, monosyllabic response is all the two of you need before you’re yanking down your pants and pulling off your shirt. The voyeur in Noct has him pausing to watch you undress before he follows suit. When you’re both in nothing but your underwear, you decide to set some ground rules.  Because who doesn’t like ground rules?  “Okay. Um.” Gods, your face is so damn hot and Noct is hanging off of your every word. You want to be delicate about this but you also just want to get to it already. As a consequence, you’re brutally blunt. “No penetration.” 

Noct is as red as a cherry. “Whoa!” 

Six, you can’t help it. You start laughing and Noct is right there with you. “Just...” you sputter between fits of laughter, “if it gets uncomfortable, say something and we’ll stop. It goes both ways. Okay?” 

Noct nods his head once, a nervous grin on his face. “Okay.” 

And then you’re back to kissing.  There’s too much tongue and teeth. Noct keeps accidentally clicking his teeth against yours and you’re starting to get irritated. You almost pull back and tell him that he’s paying for your trip to the dentist if he cracks your tooth. But then he squeezes your upper thigh and your blood is fire in your veins.  It’s desperation and neediness.  But not once is it weird. Sitting on the prince’s bed with him in nothing but your underwear, awkwardness is the furthest thing from your mind. Because the second his hand is against your bare skin you can’t think of anything else other than having _more_ contact. 

Somehow, you wind up with the prince on top of you.  You vaguely recall deepening the kiss, hand on the back of his neck, and then the world tilts and Noctis’ hips are between your thighs. _That_ contact? It has the prince choking on a moan against your mouth as something hard digs almost painfully into your hip. Still, it’s not enough.  Grabbing his ass, you pull him flush against you. 

Noct groans as his erection is trapped between you two and he bucks his hips. The friction feels wonderful, a relief to the throbbing ache between your thighs. It must be a relief to Noct as well because he repeats the motion, grinding his erection against your own arousal again until you clumsily mimic his motions.  Hot breath puffs into your ear along with incoherent words.  A hand fists in your hair while the other fists into the duvet by your head. You remove one hand from his ass to rub up and down his back. Half-thinking, you warm up your hand and press down on his lower back, on that old wound. Your name is whimpered out between needy moans. 

One leg is thrown over his hips so that you can put your other hand to better use. Fingers twist into the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. With his face still buried in your neck, mouth open just below your ear, it’s difficult for you to kiss him. Instead, you settle for pressing a kiss to his damp temple.  You’re all frayed nerves. Everything is sensitive and overstimulated. Though you’re both exercising restraint, it’s as plain as day that you’ve thought about this -- about what you would do. It’s evident in the fumbling yet careful way that hands grapple for flesh; as if these paths were thought of beforehand. 

Eyelids flutter. The darkened ceiling is all you see with a hint of Noctis’ pale back and dark hair coming into view every now and then. Head falls back against the bed, eyes screw shut, and you tense up in a sensory overload. Reflexively, your thighs tighten around the prince’s waist.  Either too caught up in the moment or not really thinking at all, mind numbed, you murmur against his temple between gasps for breath, “Six, Noctis... I love you.” 

Noct stiffens against you with a choked gasp, hips thrusting erratically two, three more times before he goes limp. Damp warmth pools against your hip and you look down to see that the front of his briefs is darkened. When you adjust yourself, his underwear sticks to your skin.  “A-Are you...” You don’t know what to say. How does one go about talking to someone they just dry humped toward orgasm with? “Are you okay?” 

Breath tickles your neck. Noct laughs, sounding tired, “Yeah. I’m okay.”  Slowly, sluggishly, he tries to push himself off of you. Feeling his reluctance, you wrap your arms around him to keep him close and he doesn’t resist. Fingers massage circles into his shoulder blades. His mouth moves against your neck, teeth accidentally grazing your flesh.  “What you said before... Me, too.” 

Your heart skips a beat. You hadn’t thought he’d _actually_ heard you. Nervous, you play dumb. “What?” 

“What you said. Me, too. But, I mean, about _you_... obviously.” When you don’t immediately respond, he grumbles, cheeks warming up against you, “I love you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Oh?” He sounds irritated and self-conscious in equal measure. “You told me that we don’t say things to each other unless we mean them.” 

“Right.” You smile against his temple. “I said that.”  Perhaps it’s because you’re both so comfortable with each other that things progress so quickly. Your intimate times together escalate from needy dry humping, to artless handjobs, to full-blown and awkwardly paced sex. It’s always on opposite ends of the spectrum: Slow and lazy or fast and desperate. 

“I trust you.”  


Fingers intertwine and secret smiles are directed at each other.  But your time connecting, of growing even closer than you thought possible, comes screeching to a halt when things come to a head with the Empire. A treaty is proposed and accepted. It comes with many strings attached. One of those strings happens to involve Noct’s future as well as Lunafreya’s.  And it also involves the brushing away of yours. 

You bitterly muse that the royal family has screwed you in more ways than one, now. As an Iovita, you’re duty-bound. The fate of your king and the Oracle hang in the balance, so you quietly back off and slink into the shadows. You have absolutely no weight behind your name when it comes to the Empire, anyway.  Or so you think. 

All you can do is what you do best: Fake it.  You tell yourself that it doesn’t hurt; that you can’t feel that hand made of barbed-wire that plunges into your chest and rips your heart out. The pain is for the greater good. And you _know_ Lunafreya. You _know_ she’ll treat Noctis right. And you want her safe. This treaty benefits _everyone_.  It’s a mantra repeated in your head to bring closure. Except closure never comes.  _Suspicion_ is all that comes. 

Because you shut the world out and the timing speaks volumes. Uncle Reggie comes to your room when you miss brunch for the second time. He asks what’s wrong. Gives you the opportunity to tell him that you’re in love with his son. The opportunity is there and you let it slip through your fingers with a smile.  Because why would you jeopardize Lunafreya’s safety and the safety of _entire nations_ for some flash in the pan romance? 

“Everything is fine. I’m just a bit ill.” _Maybe_ the king buys it.  But your mother can hear something peculiar in your voice when you speak to her over the phone.  She probes. She pokes and prods. And the concern in her voice has yours cracking before you can slap your hand over the receiver. Alone in your room, you allow yourself to cry for the first time since the engagement was announced. 

“My sweet child,” your mother’s voice is pained from hearing you choke back sobs, “what can I do?” 

“I can’t be here anymore, mother.” 

Arrangements are made quietly. Strings are pulled, Regis is sat down for a chat with the Arch-Mage, and your mother lies for your sake. A position is created for you at the Spire. You’ll be teaching a class on elemancy to students in their final year to see how effective you are as an instructor.  You’re at the arcade with Noctis and Prompto when you inform them, “I’m moving back into the Spire for my last two months of training. I won’t be back until we’re all headed out for Altissia.” 

Too busy staring at the screen as you shoot zombies, you don’t see Noct’s face fall, looking as if the world has just been yanked out from under him. You don’t see Prompto throw his friend a concerned frown and put his hand on his shoulder.  As the magisters all pack up their things to return to the Spire and as your room is emptied out, Noctis stands in your doorway. He feels empty. As empty as your room looks. The portraits of your ancestors are gone, the bed has been stripped, and your alchemy table is cleared off.  There’s no trace of you left.  It’s exactly how you want it. 

“Do you want to leave?” 

A dazzling smile is thrown at him. “ _Of course_ I do. I need to see if all my training paid off, after all. Truthfully, I’m excited to see if I can teach. They say the ultimate test of your knowledge is if you can teach it to others.” You continue to pack your duffle bag with messy manuscripts. 

“I’ll... I’ll miss you.” Noct crosses the room and reaches for you. You step back and evade his grasp. That action speaks volumes. It says a hell of a lot more than you two have said to each other over the past few weeks.  And it’s frustrating. It’s infinitely frustrating to you that neither one of you has made any effort to broach the subject of his engagement. That you both dance around it as if it doesn’t exist. The two of you act like nothing has changed when everything has. 

Actually, that’s not fair.  You _do_ act differently.  You’ve been avoiding each other. You and Noctis have behaved much the same way as the like poles of two magnets; repelling each other at every turn, doubling back in corridors and dining in your bedrooms in order not to run across each other. It’s not fair to either of you. 

“Don’t be foolish,” you grin. It’s such a fake grin. Noctis sees right through it. “We’ll be seeing each other in just a couple of short months, Noct.” 

Morose blue eyes watch you closely. “But it won’t be the same.” 

“Yes, but it’ll all work out.”  


You break the promise.  In that final conversation before you leave the Citadel to sojourn in the Spire of Duscae, you don’t mean a single thing that you say to him. No, you don’t want to leave the Citadel- leave _him_. No, nothing will work out -- at least, not for you two. And he knows.  Two years in and the relationship is dead in the water. The next couple of months are miserable.  But at least nobody asks you about the prince’s engagement to the Oracle and the impending nuptials. As expected, you’re a wonderful instructor. Praise means nothing to you, however. And the months fly by despite how you desperately cling to them and try to make them stay. 

In a blink you’re back in Insomnia, waiting outside Noctis’ bedroom to walk together and say farewell to the king in the throne room. The prince looks surprised to see you when he exits his room, dressed all in black. You wonder if he thought you would simply stay gone and never come back.  With this in mind, you plaster on a smile and gesture for him to walk with you. “Are you excited?” You ask lightly, not really wanting to hear his answer, dreading that it’s going to be a  “yes,” but still wanting to be that supportive fool of a _friend_. Because that’s all you’ll ever be. 

He shrugs and steals a glance at you. “I guess.”  He’s nervous -- you can see it in his posture. Then you realize that he’s still hung up on you by the way his hand hovers hopefully near yours. Running away didn’t solve anything, of course. Despite the urge, you don’t hold his hand in yours like he so obviously wants you to. You don’t give it a comforting squeeze.  Because you know that you have to finally face this. You have to be the one to let go. 

“You’ll be fine, Your Highness.” A snarky grin winds its way across your face. “It’s my _job_ to see to it, of course.”  And you know that hurts him. The pain that flashes in those blue eyes will haunt you. How he seems to close in on himself in that quiet way of his. How he subtly puts his hands in his pockets and how his jaw tightens tells you that you’ve hurt him.  You know. But you have to let go.

* * *

**Prompto Route**

Your interest in Prompto started from one very harsh question to yourself:  _What makes this loser so great?_ It was borne from a place of intense jealousy and frustration; from the many times you would knock on Noct’s door to ask him if he wanted to play a game with you or go watch a movie with dinner afterward only for Ignis to tell you that he was out being dragged all around the inner city by that blond cretin.

And you hate that you completely understand why Noct is drawn to the guy.  Prompto Argentum has a way with people. Though he’s awkward to an almost painful degree, he has this easy way about him that’s disarming and comforting. He doesn’t treat Noctis like a prince. He doesn’t treat you like the arcane advisor to Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.  He treats you two  _like people_.  So, you hate that you can’t hate him.

You hate that your jealousy and frustration has morphed into something new. That you no longer find yourself jealous of Prompto, but jealous  _of Noctis_. Envying the amount of time the prince gets to spend with the vivacious blond. Wishing you could be there when you learn that they’re out on the town.  It comes as a complete surprise to Prompto when you corner him one day when he comes over to visit Noct (and to secretly watch you in the garden, pants dirty and all a perfect mess) and you clumsily order more than you suggest, “Let’s hang out."

His soul ascends.

“U-Uh! Yeah! Oh,  _yeah_! Sure!” He’s beaming, blue eyes twinkling. He hasn’t smiled this wide in his entire life, chapped lips almost splitting. Hell, he thought you  _hated him_ and that this would  _never, ever happen_. Not in a million years. “When? Where?” He’s so eager that he’s practically buzzing.

That gives you pause. It had taken so much out of you to muster up the courage (and mend your ego for falling for the blond’s wiles in the first place) to make this bold request that you hadn’t even considered what you two would do if he agreed. Prompto sees your hesitance, your discomfort, and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “Just leave it to me,” he drawls, all cocky and smug. And you do. And the first official hangout is a  _total disaster._

Prompto has you meet him outside of his and Noct’s school on a Friday. Ever so bold, he grabs your hand and begins walking, backpack slung coolly over his shoulder, swagger to his gait. Inside, he’s freaking the hell out because  _oh gods he’s holding (y/n)’s hand_! Prom thinks he’s being really damn cool.  Meanwhile, you’re trying to resist the urge to pry your hand out of his and wipe it off because his is  _so godsdamned sweaty_.

This part of Insomnia isn’t too busy on a Friday evening. A few people walk by without sparing you two a passing glance. You’re thankful, ‘cause that certainly wouldn’t have been the case if you’d brought your staff along for this wild ride. But considering what happens, you probably should’ve.  Maybe it would have served as a deterrent.

Buildings grow more and more crowded the closer you two get to the inner city. Pretty soon, they’re basically on top of each other without any room for alleys. This area is unfamiliar to your relatively sheltered self. Finally, you ask, “Where are we going? You aren’t gonna take me somewhere and kill me, are you?”

“What?” Prom laughs, blue eyes turned to crescents at that joke. “No, (y/n). I’m taking you to this restaurant I really like. I was hoping you’d like it, too.”

“Right,” you grumble, eyes shifting over the dilapidated buildings, some of which are abandoned, “I’m sure I’ll love the little hole in the wall.”

He squeezes your hand and you feel like he just squeezed your heart along with it. “Well, excuse this plebeian for saying so, but the food’s good. I swear.”

The “hole in the wall” turns out to be a ramen shop -- a  _genuine_ one, they don’t serve the styrofoam garbage Gladiolus always tries to get you to eat after you work out. Seeing your nonplussed expression when you open the menu, Prompto makes a few suggestions and you roll with it. He’s tickled to death over how you awe over the tiny shop. It’s cozy and homey, the smell of warm broth in the air as the chef cuts the noodles. To Prompto, this is the perfect time for selfies. Luckily the chef doesn’t mind being in the shot, throwing a peace sign before going back to work.

Conversation comes easily; you don’t stutter or stammer and neither does Prompto. You ask about his classwork and he asks about your studies. He’s enthralled when you bring up the subject of your enchanting and how you’ve been working on making a door in the Citadel open up to a random room each time it’s opened. “I think it’ll give Noct a laugh,” you chuckle.

Prom grins at you. “Is that why you worked so hard on something like that? To make him laugh?”

“Oh, you severely underestimate me, sweetheart.” An evil smirk tugs up the corner of your mouth when he blushes at the diminutive. But you turn serious and take a sip of your tea. “I would bring the heavens crashing down upon the world for that little goon.”

Blue eyes watch you closely. It’s obvious that you care deeply for Noct. Sometimes Prompto would find himself wondering if your affection for the prince ran deeper than friendship. Certainly, he thought that was the case when your jealousy first reared its head. But Noct had brushed off the awkward question with a snort and a “Hell no.”

The part of the hangout session where you two eat ramen, joke around, and take pictures of each other? That part is fine. That part is what Prompto daydreams about for days and days, it’s what has him grinning like a fool in class when he should be paying attention to lecture.  It’s what happens after that sometimes has him waking up in the middle of the night, heart racing, palms sweaty and shaking. But when he falls back asleep, the scene continues and you’re there. His dashing hero. The nightmare turns into a dream.

“Do you mind if I walk you to the Citadel?”

Eyes turn up to the dark sky and you sigh. “I was gonna call Ignis, actually.” At his dejected expression, you snort, “What? Were you expecting to kiss me on my doorstep?”

Prompto blushes brightly. “No! I-”  


“Hey, you.”  


The two of you turn toward that gruff voice. Across the street, two men are watching you. Tension coils in Prompto’s gut. You, on the other hand? That tension coils in your frontal lobe. Though you should be fearful, neither of these guys has anything on Gladio’s physique and you’ve been body-slammed by that guy and thrown over his shoulder like a ragdoll more times than you’d care to admit. So, these losers? The most they get out of you is frustration because they’re pissing all over the nice time you just had with Prompto.

For his part, Prompto has never seen you in action. And the would-be muggers who stalk across the road toward you two have never confronted a mage before. To them, you look as docile as a lamb. Your oversized cardigan swallows up your form, hiding lean muscle, and your laced-up black boots say that you have money. Your expression, however, says that you’re five seconds and two more steps away from ripping someone’s trachea out and strangling them with it.

“Nice night for a walk, eh?” One of the thugs asks.

Prompto is frozen in fear but you don’t notice. Instead of looking at your blond companion, you keep your eyes on the two men and simper, “Oh, yes. But it’s a better night to leave me and my friend the fuck alone.”

That gets one of the guys to laugh. “This one has a mouth on ‘em.”

“This one suggests you walk away if you want to keep  _yours_.”

To Prompto and the mugger who  _doesn’t_ lash out at you with his fist, what happens next seems to come from a fantasy film. One moment the mugger is lunging toward you, trying to punch you in the face, and the next he’s nothing more than an ugly ice sculpture. Two pairs of wide eyes turn on you as you shake out your left hand, little flurries dancing off of your skin and up into the night sky.

“You-You killed him!” The other man sputters, backing away from you like you’re a monster. “Murderer!”

“Morality from a  _thug_? What a treat,” you ooze sarcasm. “Your fellow shithead will thaw out in a minute. Consider yourselves lucky that my companion fed me, so I was feeling merciful. Otherwise, I would’ve just set you on fire and watched the flesh melt from your bo- Oh. He’s running away. What a friend.”

“(y/n)...”

“Hm?” Head turns, ready for Prompto to speak (a small part of you is afraid that you scared him with your brutal magic), when you feel pressure on your lips. Warm hands cup your face, trying to tug you close. But you’re as still as a statue, eyes wide open. His chapped lips tremble against yours, as do his hands along your face, and you realize he was frightened. You reach your hand up, just about to touch his cheek, when he pulls away after you don’t reciprocate the kiss. He’s ashamed.

“Sorry about that. I’m...” He backs away, sucks in a deep breath and says on the exhale, “I’m sorry that this date was so awful. And... I’m sorry for choking.”

You want to tell him that you had fun up until this moment. You want to ask him if he’s okay, because you can see that he’s still shaking. You want to apologize for being so blasé about a would-be mugging and for not realizing that he had been afraid while you were busy playing action hero.  But you don’t. Because you get caught up on one word. “Wait...” you murmur, brow furrowed, “did you think this was a date?”

“What?”  


“I said, ‘Let’s hang out.’” You point out slowly, “Hang. Out.”

The blond goes pale. “Oh. No! I  _knew_ we were hanging out. Just bros bein’ bros. Heh.” He looks like he wants to kick himself for saying that. And maybe he should.

“And bros hold hands?” You tease, latching on to his embarrassment to distract him from his fear. “And they kiss, too?”

He’s immediately defensive, cheeks puffing out. “Yes.”

“Really? You hold Noct’s hand? You kiss him?”

“Ye-” Now he’s red. “Wait.  _No_!”

“Hm. What else don’t you do with a  _bro_ that you’ll do with me?”

Prompto is a  _dangerous_ shade of red. “Well, I wouldn’t- I don’t really-” When he swallows, it’s audible.

It’s sad. It’s really sad. To Prompto, you’ve always been the teasing, taunting mage. Alluring and mysterious, sometimes adorably awkward and easy to fluster. He’s not privy to your more devious side -- a side Noctis could’ve warned him about if the blond had told his best friend about the not-date.  ‘Cause Noct would’ve warned his friend about you. He would’ve told the blond not to show you an ounce of fear -- because like some dangerous predator you feed off of it with zeal. Noct would’ve told Prom not to let his guard down, not to buy into any innocent charade you put on.  Because you’re far from innocent. And you love to see Prompto Argentum blush, no matter what it takes.

Steps echo as you move closer. Prompto feels like he’s rooted to the spot, breath stilling in his chest when you lean in, body against his, and whisper in his ear, “Do you want to know what sort of things I’ll do to you that I wouldn’t do with  _some bro_?”

Eyelids flutter at the feel of your warm breath against his skin. “Yes...”

You step back, a grin on your face. “Too bad. We’ll save that for chapter two.”

“Huh?”

“For our second  _hang out_ ,” you explain. “Now, let’s go before that loser thaws out and I’m forced to re-freeze him. I don’t think it’s healthy to get frozen back-to-back.”

You let him walk you to the Citadel and you hold his hand tight. One doleful look from you has Uncle Reggie practically ordering the blond to stay the night. “You have to be careful at night,” he’d said to the blond before leveling you with a meaningful look -- a look that said he still remembered what it was like to be a teenager and Astrals  _save you and Prompto_ if he heard the boy didn’t sleep in  _his room_ that night.

For someone who is so used to being the pursuer and never being pursued, your attention makes Prompto feel like the most important person in the world. Those taunts turn into lighthearted teases coupled with lingering touches. Once you rub some ice cream from his chin and he swears that’s the day he died. His growing fondness for you is something you take a while to notice.  
Your growing fondness for Prompto is something he catches on to immediately.

Pink cheeks and downcast gazes complemented by stuttered speech patterns. You both do this. That’s what you’re accustomed to. But lately, there’s something a bit more brazen to you. Over the months your interactions have escalated from something innocent to something more carnal.  Many times Prompto will be forced to walk away from you awkwardly after you press a teasing kiss to his fingers, eyes boldly locked with his. Sometimes he’ll have to excuse himself after chaste kisses turn into clumsy things with too much tongue and hands finding their way to sensitive places.

You’re feeling equal parts intrigued and devious. “Argentum,” you sing one day and those blue eyes alight on you eagerly. You two are alone, blissfully alone.

Noct had been called away by Gladio for training when he and the blond were playing games. Though Prom has been taking self-defense classes, he’s still too nervous to go toe-to-toe with Gladio. So Prom sits awkwardly in the prince’s bedroom until you lean in the doorway and call his name.  He perks up on Noct’s bed. “Hey, (y/n)! How ya doin’?”  


“I’m well. And yourself?”  


“Pretty good. Just... kinda bored,” he admits with an abashed shrug of his shoulders.

“That’s too bad.”

Prompto feels so small under your gaze. Gods, your eyes always feel like spotlights with him alone on a vast stage. When you look at him he feels nervous, jittery, yet when you look away he’s alone in the dark. But today he senses something different in your eyes. You make him nervous and excited, and he’s thrilled when you come into the room and sit next to him on the bed. The fact that you’re always busy yet somehow find the time to lavish him with your attention flatters him, makes his heart feel light and fluttery.

The two of you chat for a bit. He makes you laugh so easily and he appreciates your dark humor, doesn’t take your jabs to heart. This dynamic has grown over the months. You purposefully bump your hand against his, against his knee, and he tries to squash the heat in his gut. But then you give him this  _look_. It’s pure evil. It sets him on fire, makes his heart stop, makes the room close in on him. And you query lightly, “Ever wonder what a mage’s bedroom looks like?”

Smooth. As. Hell.  


And that question goes straight to Prompto’s dick.  He tries and fails to be casual. “Yeah, I’ve... I’ve wondered a lot, actually. Not that I think about it a lot! I mean, it’s been a recent thought. So... yes. Definitely. I’ve wondered about your- about a mage’s bedroom. What it looks like...”

“Well, you can keep wondering...” You grin and watch as he turns his face away, embarrassed and ashamed. You lean closer, breath on his flushed neck, “... _or_ , you can follow me.” You savor the way he jumps and gasps when you press a feather-light kiss below his ear. Then you get up and exit the room, cool as a cucumber. There’s a beat of silence before you hear Prompto scramble off of the bed after you.

On your heels, he throws a million questions at your back. Do you have...  _the stuff_? Are you sure? What exactly are you two going to do? Wait... are you just gonna show him your bedroom? This better not be another mean joke. Not that he’s pressuring you or anything! But seriously, what are you two gonna do?

A sneaky smirk is tossed his way over your shoulder and you say innocently, “I have a lot of pinups on my walls. Promise not to judge?”

He goes red, heart almost stops right then and there. “Of course I won’t.”  


He doesn’t know that you’re joking. Maybe your ancestors roll in their unmarked graves at being used  as a joke to break the ice -- for being referred to as  _pinups_.  They  _definitely_ roll when their likenesses are forced to bear witness to their prodigal descendant getting on their knees and blowing a whining, moaning blond for the first time. They probably die all over again when he screams your name and blasphemes against the Astrals in the same shuddering breath.

A couple of maids blush and giggle when they see you later that day and you pinch the bridge of your nose. Luckily for you, you instill just enough fear in others that they wouldn’t dare gossip about you... at least, not to other people in the Citadel.  The next time you see Prompto, you ignore how he goes red and how he won’t stop staring at your mouth and you snap, “The first thing I told you was to keep your voice down, dammit.”

“I-I’m sorry! Next time I’ll be quiet, I swear!”

You stare at him until he realizes what he just said. As he gasps so loudly that you think he came all over again, you snark, “That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”

Nothing about this courtship is conventional.  There are no official dates, no awkward drop-offs at doorsteps at night, and no meeting of the parents. It’s kept as quiet as possible even though Prompto wants to sing it from the rooftops. You’re more wary about Spire interference, so you swear him to secrecy.  Honestly, you don’t expect it to last long. Rather, you have no expectations of the relationship.

The two of you argue a couple of times over silly things like your cunning nature that can often be mistaken for flirting and Prompto’s tendency to try and engage in PDA even though you’re supposed to be discreet. Each time it gets worked out, each time you force yourselves to communicate rather than shut down.  And now Noctis’ wedding is on the horizon and it has Prompto thinking.  Thinking about how he’d follow you to the end of the world and back, how he can’t imagine his life without you. How he wants to share everything with you. He’s so deep in thought, waiting for you outside your room, that he nearly jumps out of his skin when you shove something in his hand.

“What’s this?” He asks, blindly feeling the trinket in his hand. Prom takes in your nervous expression before looking down at the silver ring in his palm. He goes white and then red. He might cry. He might laugh. He might faint. He might do all of these things at once. “O-Oh my gosh! (y/n)! Is this-?!”

“Oh,  _hush_!” You scoff, running hot. “We’ve only been dating for like, four years, chill out.”

_Only_ four? You really think about what you just said. Four years is a long time... Can’t really fault the guy for thinking you were gonna make an honest man out of him. As you’re ruminating over the time you two have spent together, you miss the disappointment on the blond’s face before he expertly snuffs it out. Though, honestly, he’s glad you stopped him. He’d just been about to make the biggest fool out of himself and start yelling, “Yes! Yes!  _Yes_!”

It’s something the others have wondered about, too. They even placed bets on if you two would actually commit to each other and who would be the one to ask. Noct was the only one to bet on you, arguing that, sure, you’re awkward as hell but Prompto is  _so much worse_!  And that got them talking about how they puzzled out your not-so-secret relationship. There was much cringing and pained laughter.

Ignis had spied you leading the blushing blond into your room by the hand and he nearly threw himself down the other hallway even though there was  _no way_ you’d spotted him. That had been three years ago. The bespectacled man had seen you kiss Prom’s knuckles when he’d come over, upset about something; brush away his tears with your thumb, cup his cheek and whisper, “Sunshine.” It became apparent that you two sought each other out for comfort and companionship. What Iggy initially thought was a dalliance was something deeper, more meaningful.

Gladio had caught on to what you two were up to shortly after Iggy. He’d been looking for you to complain about Noct ditching training when he noticed that your door was open just barely a crack. The brunet pushed it open, ready to start bitching, when the words got stuck in his throat.  You and Prom looked cozy in your room, watching a movie, sharing the same soda with your side to the door. Gladio had been so damn confused because he was  _so sure_ you hated the guy.  Then he saw Prompto’s hand slyly run up your thigh, moving inward, fingers adding pressure, and he noped the hell out of the room, tried to burn that scene out of his damn head.

Noct was the first to figure it out and counted himself lucky that he didn’t find out by way of catching you two in some heated moment.  It all clicked when Prompto had been bullied by some bruiser at school and Noct had him come over to play video games and not think about it. Then you’d stopped by, as usual. Then something  _un_ usual happened. The way your face had gone eerily still made Noct shiver.  You’d called Prompto over lightly, said you needed to ask him a question about photography,  which Noct knew was bullshit. Stealthily, the prince had tiptoed to the doorway to spy on you two in the hall outside his room.

How you’d ran your fingers over the purplish-red splotch on Prom’s chin, how the blond had leaned into your touch. How you pulled him into a hug and his body melded to yours, lips pressed to his ear, whispers filling the air followed by the blond shaking with laughter. And Noct knew.  A few days later, the bruiser’s hair was cut short. A rumor spread that someone had set it on fire. He never even looked at Prompto again after that.

“Well, what is this?” Prompto asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. “A birthday present?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not your birthday, so the obvious answer is ‘no.’ This is what I called you over for. It’s an enchanted ring. It’ll deflect enemy attacks...  _sometimes_. It was a bit difficult to test out since I couldn’t convince anybody to shoot me.”

“Enemy... attacks?” Prom blanches and then his eyes narrow. “Wait! What the hell?! You were trying to get people to  _shoot you_?”

You gloss over that second question and gingerly grab his hand. “Prompto, the world outside of Insomnia is dangerous. Daemons come out at night and I want you to be covered. So, just wear that ugly thing for my sake. Hm?”

He sighs, letting you off the hook. “It’s not ugly and of course I’ll wear it. I-I love it, (y/n). Thank you.”

Head cocks to the side, eyes narrow. “Really? Because you look disappointed.”

“I’m not! Really.”

“Okay, then. Well, I gotta go get fitted for what I’m gonna wear at Noct’s wedding. My mother will have my head if she finds out I missed my fitting and I can’t stand Luna’s signature disappointed look, either. I swear she could kill me with that look alone. It’s like a Mortal Kombat finishing move or some shit.”

“Okay.”

You peck his cheek and turn to leave. But you stop yourself. Because, even though he insists that he isn’t disappointed, you can still hear it in his voice. And you have to admit, you knew what he might assume with that stupid ring and you feel foolish and maybe a bit cruel.  This is something you two have only spoken about fleetingly. It’s brought up when you see apartments for lease and when you spend the night in his lonely home. You want this. Stomach tightens with nerves. You hope you aren’t being too presumptuous. That he was serious with all the hints he dropped.

“Hey, Prom?”  


Cornflower blue eyes fixate on you and your heartbeat quickens. “Hm?”  


“You’d agree that we’ve spent a lot of time together, right?”  


He laughs. “Well, yeah. Four years of it, (y/n). That’s nothing to sneeze at.”  


“You’d agree that we mean a lot to each other, right? And you know that I love you, right?”

The laughter stops. He sees the tension and the tenderness in your expression. “Yes. And I love you, too. Oh, crap...” He looks like he’s hyperventilating. “I can’t believe this is happening. (y/n), you better not be pulling a prank right now or I’m gonna be so mad!”

“After this trip, when we get back from Altissia...” You smile, try to fight back nerves. You force yourself to focus on the blond’s reaction, his doe eyes, when you clumsily order more than you suggest, “Marry me.”

He faints.

* * *

**Ignis Route**

The secret power couple. That’s what you two are.  No nonsense. Absolutely no room for fooling around.  _Well_... There’s a lot of room for fooling around, but not from the outset. You’re both so strictly regimented when it comes to your duties that it’s a wonder to outsiders how you even began dating. But you start young.  Emphasis on  _you_.

Before you learned the value of social filters, of saving face, and of all other manner of keeping up appearances, you were rather uncouth in your youth. Ignis Scientia got on your last nerve since you viewed the older boy as bullying your best friend. Such a territorial little mage you were. If someone said or did something you didn’t like to Noctis, the only warning they got before your wrath was you puffing out your little cheeks and crossing your arms. Noct always tried to talk you down. Usually, the prince served as a calming influence, especially if he had some candy on hand to bribe you with.

Still, Ignis would find random parts of the hallway he was walking in iced over and slippery after taking junk food away from Noctis or something else that hardly warranted a mageling’s attempt on his life. And he always knew it was you. Obviously. He had absolutely  _no qualms_ about confronting you. Maybe that was what piqued your interest? He treated you like you were any other brat -- as if your magic and family name weren’t all he saw when he sat you down and stared at you until you confessed (which you always did, since the reflection off of his glasses intimidated you). Didn’t flinch when you looked at him, didn’t keep you at arm’s length.

Slowly but surely, as he sternly lectured you about posing a hazard to the general health and safety of all living and working in the Citadel, you found yourself getting lost in those deep emerald eyes. Cheeks would warm up and you’d duck your head and apologize meekly before scampering off.  Gladiolus teased the everloving  _hell_ out of you.  Especially when he’d catch you staring at Ignis with a small smile on your face. The older boy thought it was hilarious! The standoffish mage  _liked_ Ignis? Then he started to catch Ignis staring at you and it became a very real possibility that Iggy liked you, too.

Gladiolus was probably the only one wise to yours and Ignis’ secret romance as the years went by, aside from your Uncle Reggie, of course. But if he knew anything, he never said a word.  Eventually, you’d find yourself walking in on Iggy while he was working and Iggy would find himself walking over to your room to keep you company. Sipping strong herbal tea and reading from your immense library. He’d listen as you told him what was in the tea for the day and the properties of each ingredient.

The two of you initially only talked about Noctis. It was awkward. Not to say that you two ever felt uneasy around each other, but it was rather strange to hang out with someone you had romantic feelings for only to talk about  _someone else_ ad nauseam. You were both very much stuck in your respective roles. At that point, something had to give. You’re the one to take the initiative. But as it turns out, Ignis was waiting on you the whole time. It’s when you’re thirteen that you take Ignis aside one day and ask, “Would you like to spend more time with me?”

“I suppose, if you’d like to spend more time together, Noctis wouldn’t mind if you sat in-”

“No,” you interrupt, refusing to get flustered, “that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear. I want it to just be us.”

Pink blossoms prettily onto his cheeks. Glasses are pushed up the elegant slope of his nose even though they haven’t budged an inch. He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Of course.”

But the dates are sporadic and almost always interrupted either on accident or on purpose. Uncle Reggie walks in on a chaste kiss and nopes the hell out as if you two were doing something more scandalous. Ignis formally apologizes to an amused Regis and you almost cancel brunch with the king that week.  And the magisters always have “extra work” for you when they spot you in the Citadel. Without a “valid” reason not to fulfill your duties, you’re forced to drop what you’re doing. Ignis starts to consider your options. Where can you two go where you can’t be interrupted? Certainly  _out_ of the Citadel.

Thus begins the tradition of watching films.  At first, you’re a little skeptical. How are you supposed to talk and connect with someone during an activity where you’re meant to be quiet and focused on a screen? But Ignis picks movies because he knows you enjoy watching them in your downtime and it gets you out of the Citadel.  Besides, it doesn’t take long for you two to break that most sacred of movie-watching social contracts:  You talk through the film.

It starts with hushed whispers. Ignis does this on purpose, just to get his lips close to your ear, to grab your forearm as he leans in close for some catty commentary. Every now and then, his lips accidentally touch you and you feel like you’re buzzing for the rest of the film.  Pretty soon, you’re wise to his nefarious plot. And you reciprocate.

It’s amusing how you two up the ante with each other over the years. For anyone else, this might be considered taking things at a glacial pace. But the two of you enjoy this funny game of unsatisfying teasing. Touches on his knee, you bring him closer for a whisper, fingertips on his chin to guide him as if he can’t turn his head for himself.  His hand falls a little high on your thigh, fingertips grip during a tense scene that he isn’t even paying attention to. He leans toward you as if he’s going to kiss you, only to keep moving and grab your soda from your cupholder to take a drink. You almost push him out of his chair for that one. But you  _always_ get him back.

“Want some Ebony?”

A flash of emerald. He’s furrowing his delicate eyebrows at you and murmuring, “I didn’t see any at the concession stand.” Ignis Scientia watches as you shake your right arm until a pack of gummy bears slides out of the sleeve of your bulky cardigan and onto your lap followed by some chocolate and a can of Ebony. He bites his lip and looks away, shoulders shaking.

“You gonna laugh the whole time or drink your damn coffee?”

Iggy looks back at you just in time to see you ice the can before putting it in his cupholder. He’s always touched that you think of him while you illegally smuggle outside food into the theater. Now comes the hard part. You steal a glance at Ignis and cough loudly as you rip open your bag of gummies.  The brunet brings his fist to his mouth.  Next, you grab the can of Ebony. Finger primed on the tab, you fake-sneeze and crack the can open. The people in the theater are none the wiser. But if the contraband doesn’t get you two kicked out, it’ll be Ignis who seems to be having a hard time refraining from laughing at your antics who does it.  He acts like you haven’t done this for  _years_ now.  


“Shh!” You hiss at him and dig your elbow into his arm for emphasis. “This is the best theater near  the Citadel. If you don’t stop, you’ll get us kicked out.”

He blinks those emerald eyes at you and whispers, “Sorry.”

“Tch.” A smirk quirks your lips and you return your attention to the film. But you don’t stop your teasing. “Don’t be so noisy. You’re very inconsiderate to your fellow moviegoers. Those annoying little warnings they give before the film to essentially ‘shut up’ are meant for people like you.”

“I wasn’t  _that_ loud.” After a few minutes of silence, the brunet leans into you and insists, “They wouldn’t  kick us out over  _my_ laughter.  _Your food_ on the other hand...”

“They kick people out all the time for making excessive noise.” Eyes slide to the side, looking at him through your lashes. “And I’m sure I could get you to make some excessive noise if you don’t  _drop it_ already.”

It’s not meant to be sexual. It’s actually an empty threat.  But Ignis goes red and you have a severe case of foot-in-mouth syndrome where you just can’t stop teasing the guy... even if it’s at your own expense. He’s just so hard to fluster that you jump at anything that can get him blushing. So, even though you should probably lay off and take your own advice to  _drop it_... you don’t.  A gummy bear is popped into your mouth carelessly and you speak around it. “Think about it. It’s the perfect place, isn’t it? All dark with loud noises. Everyone’s busy looking at the screen, too. How easy would it be for us to  _just_...”

“We might get caught.”

Heart leaps into your throat and heat pools in your stomach. Ignis says it like he’s actually considering this dumb little fantasy of yours. Hell, his voice even sounds a little deeper. Chancing a stealthy glance to your side, you find him staring at you. That gummy bear is almost the cherry- flavored death of you.  “Obviously when it’s empty, then.”  You continue on like this is actually a serious discussion... It  _isn’t_ , is it? The most you two have done is over-the-clothes groping when you’re making out. Sure, you’ve broached the subject before. Both of you said you were prepared. But then your duties kicked back up. You’ve been busy.

Ignis holds your gaze. He’s dead serious. This is a special (albeit very,  _very_ unconventional) place for you two and you’ve expressed an interest... The brunet considers it, weighs all of the pros and cons, before assuring, “When it’s empty, then.”

You snort, “Yeah.  _Sure_.”

He does a lot of research. An  _obscene_ amount of research. Every few minutes he clears his browsing history. He’s too afraid to take physical notes just in case somebody finds them. It’s not that he’s ashamed. Ignis Scientia just prefers a certain level of discretion... despite the venue that you’ve selected.  Other than that, it’s business as usual.  For your part, you think it’s still half a joke -- like it’s not  _really_ going to happen. It was a little fantasy that you were teasing him with to see his cheeks go all red. But the next time you go to the movies, when you’re the only two people in the theater, it happens.

You should’ve seen it coming. Because he was  _way_ too damn calm on the drive.

The feature film for the day is  _The Thing_. Hardly a romantic movie but since it’s old Iggy knew there wouldn’t be many people in attendance. Plus, it’s the matinee and the brunet has been with you  long enough ( _five years_ ) to know that you have to consume every bit of pop culture even if you’re well behind the times.  As usual, goodies are shaken out of your sleeves and distributed; a can of Ebony for Iggy and all manner of tooth-rotting goodness for you. You’re on your second handful of gummy worms and cringing at the gore on the screen when Ignis speaks.  Eyes on the viscera but not paying it any mind, he orders, "Unbutton and unzip your pants."

"What?" You laugh, totally taken aback. Stuck somewhere between horror at someone getting melted into another creature and confusion at Ignis’ comment, you find yourself slow on the uptake. But when his words fully hit you? A gummy worm falls to the floor. He can’t be serious, can he? “Wait.  _What_?”

But he knows you heard him.  He doesn't repeat the command.  Looking around the empty theater like someone might materialize and catch you two in the act, you slowly unbutton and unzip your pants. Ignis doesn't immediately do anything. Your heart is practically in your throat when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.  Without looking, Ignis glides his hand from his lap to yours. It’s a slow journey from your upper thigh, fingertips pressing down, dragging up to deliberately add a teasing amount of pressure between your thighs. Fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear, finding you ready for him.  You don't miss that smug, self-satisfied smirk that briefly flickers across his lips.

Ignis moves deftly against you. Palming, fingertips gliding along slick flesh. Soon wet, lewd sounds emanate rhythmically from you two. He sets a damning pace, slow and torturous, dragging it out, forcing your orgasm to build far too slow. You find yourself rutting against his hand, grabbing his wrist, desperate for more friction.  And he  _isn't_ pleased.  Ignis removes his hand from between your legs and scolds, "Don't move or I'll stop altogether." For emphasis or maybe to drive you mad, he slowly licks the evidence of your obvious arousal from his fingers as he reprimands you. Those damn green eyes hold your gaze all the while.

Between crude swears and hisses, you finally spit out a begrudging, " _Okay_."

"Now,” he leans forward to press a chaste kiss to your lips, the taste of yourself mixed with Ebony lingering there, “stay quiet. We wouldn't want to get kicked out for making excessive noise, now would we?"

"R-Right," you breathe, light-headed.

Ignis almost seems more eager than you are to continue, if that's even possible. Wicked fingers resume their work, stroking and mercifully adding pressure. The heat of his hand is scalding. Breath comes short, a needy whine of his name escapes you before you can smother it. But he drinks it up anyway; either forgetting his command or too caught up in the moment to care.  Vision grows bleary. Heat coils low in your gut and your toes curl in your boots. Ignis feels you tense up beneath his hand, notices how you dig your fingernails into the armrests and barely refrain from bucking your hips up against his hand. Emerald eyes watch your face screw up. He  moves fast. So fast it should be impossible.

Ignis manages to squeeze himself in the aisle before you, yank down your pants and underwear, and have you cumming on his tongue before you even realize what's happening. The feel of that slick heat between your thighs has you grabbing his hair in your fists. Your mouth opens in a silent scream, quiet just like he commanded.  Emerald eyes watch all the while, burning the scene into his memory. The drive back to the Citadel is silent.

What’s the plot of  _The Thing_? Who were the characters? How did it end? Who survived?  _Were there_ any survivors? Honestly, you don’t have a damn clue. You’re having a really hard time not crossing your legs because you’re still feeling Ignis there.  Iggy notices your stiff posture and bites his tongue. Hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel.

“I can’t believe you used my own words against me,” you finally murmur, staring out of the window. You see him look at you in the reflection and turn to shoot him a fake glare. “But don’t worry. I’ll pay you back, Scientia.”

And of course, you do. That’s how you two play your little courtship game, after all. It’s all about upping the ante at your own mutually agreed upon pace. There’s no PDA. There’s only subtle, teasing, taunting touches hidden under a table, or the grazing of hands as you pass by each other in the corridors, and there are stolen, meaningful looks. Behind closed doors, there are deep, philosophical conversations filled with contemplative pauses. There are lighthearted chats that have the brunet pinching your cheek as “punishment” with you burrowing your face in his neck and laughing. But laughter and other noises can always be heard through doors.

And  _that’s_ how Prompto Argentum finds out that you and Ignis are together. He’d been looking for you to outfit him with some bottled magic when he heard  _it_. He bumps into Gladio on his panicky way to find Noctis and word-vomits everything to him. Of course, he refrains from telling Gladio and Noctis exactly  _what_ he heard. When probed for info, he merely says he heard “voices.” He doesn’t  _dare_ say he heard Ignis moaning your name.  


“How long do you think they’ve been together?” Prompto asks. He’s jittery, feeling like you might  pop up at any moment as you’re wont to do.  


Gladio shrugs. “Does it matter? It’s none of our business.”

However, Noct is a bit uncomfortable even though he tries to stifle it. It’s just that you’re his  _best friends_ and you two kept this from him? He thought you talked to him about  _everything_. Sure, he’d noticed that you and Ignis went to the movies a lot but he chalked it up to you two just being good friends.  Noct is the one to confront you two.  He’s awkward about it, fumbling with a way to broach the subject without it seeming like he’s terribly upset. He’s not! He’s just... shocked. And also a little impressed that you managed to keep a secret for so long.  _How long_ , was it? The prince balks when you admit that it’s been seven years now.  His steely blue eyes practically pop out of his head. “Se-!” He reels it in. “ _Seven years_?”

“I’m sorry if you’re upset that we kept this from you,” you apologize soberly. It’s all a hot mess. The three of you are in your room and you’re pouring herbal tea in the hopes of relaxing the prince. Ignis abstains. But based on his posture alone as he sits at the small table? He might need the whole damn pot.

“What?” Noct hastily corrects, “ _No_. We just... have to make adjustments for the trip.”

Confused, you parrot, “Adjustments?”

The prince rubs the back of his neck, too stressed about the upcoming trip to Altissia to have yet another thing to deal with. “I’m not staying in a room with the two of you-”

“We aren’t without self-restraint,” Ignis interrupts, looking mildly irritated. But to the two people who know him the best, you and Noct can see that he’s mortified.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you drawl, shooting Iggy a bland look. “Besides, it’s a good idea. Five people in a room would be too crowded for me, anyway. I was actually moving some funds around to get a room for myself in Altissia.”

“By yourself?” The guys ask in unison.

“ _Yeah_ ,” you snort, brow quirked at the echo in the room, “I have a lot of stuff that I need to spread out in the room. Just stuff for safety precautions. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be sleeping on alchemy components, Iggs.”

One elegant adjustment of his glasses is all the warning you get before he drops a bomb. “Actually, I already arranged to have a separate room prepared.”

“Already? Wow. I was just going to pay when we got there. I didn’t think they held rooms.”

“They do for special occasions.”  


It takes a moment for that statement to click for the two oblivious ones in the room.  And Noct slowly stands up and thanks you for the tea that he didn’t even touch. He reassures you both once more that everything’s fine and that he’s just happy to know about it  _now_. Instead of leaving like a normal person, he backs out of the room with his hands slightly up as if he’s fending off raptors.

“Oh, no. Are you finally going to murder me? Because I have some loose ends to tie up,” you joke lamely before guzzling down your tea and pouring yourself some more. “You sure you don’t want any tea? It’s really good. Works wonders for the nerves.”

“Yes, I can tell by the quiver of your hand,” Ignis snarks.

You blanche. “What? Oh!  _No_. That’s just from all the coffee I had this morning.” Emerald eyes watch you knowingly. The silence drags on for a century.  Nine scowling faces stare down at you from the walls. Your ancestors’ portraits are making you feel boxed in despite the vastness of the room. Tea continues to be chugged until it’s all gone. Ignis knows how to read you well, waiting for the tension to slowly ebb from your posture before he gently takes your hand in his.

That gesture alone calms you. Eyelids flutter at the contact and you sigh, rubbing your thumb against his hand. Seven years together and he can soothe you with a simple touch. It’s funny how the perpetually anxious and high-strung mage is so easily mellowed by the bespectacled tactician. And vice versa.  His palm is warm, fingers tracing soothing circles into the back of your hand. He speaks softly. “This wasn’t how I envisioned you finding out.” Ignis pauses, steels himself, before reassuring, “There’s no pressure whatsoever. I hope you’re aware that you can say ‘no.’”

“I know.” You smile and squeeze his hand. “But I won’t.”

* * *

**Gladiolus Route**

Honestly, you two start off so cliché. You hate each other.  No, it’s not the cute kind of hate. There are no flirty glances, no awkward blushes, or little love confessionals at the start. You’re the young mage with the Napoleon complex. Even after you get your growth spurt, the aggression remains well into your late teens.  And it’s not even an overt aggression, which pisses Gladiolus off. ‘Cause he could handle  _that_ kind. It’s the sneaky kind. It’s so pernicious. It’s so condescending and arrogant behind this placid veneer with hooded eyes and soft smiles.

You never speak to him. You  _drawl_. You  _simper_. You  _taunt_.

All the while maintaining that haughty air; arms crossed over your chest or pinned behind your back; spine so straight. Gladio actually starts to find it funny. Because you look so polished and refined, speak like a blue blood, and then the filthiest things are spat from that prim mouth when it’s just the two of you.  And you  _sneer_. And for whatever reason, hell, maybe he’s crazy... he grows to like that sneer.

It’s an exhausting transition from hate to love to hate... to other things. It’s all about timing and hurt feelings. You’re sixteen when you first realize you have a crush on the older obnoxious guy. You two had been getting along well, only occasionally butting heads over Noct and your tendency to be arrogant. The two of you have many shared interests and you just...  _click_ despite initially loathing each other. But you don’t know what to do. Don’t know how to handle yourself.

He’s stuffing ramen in his mouth across the table from you. There’s a scrape on your chin that he put there from training. There’s a bandage there, too, that he also put there. You’d felt like your skin was buzzing when he slowly ran his thumb over the bandage to make sure it was sticking properly.  And then he just went on like normal. And you realized he didn’t see you that way. “You eat like a pig,” you find yourself snapping.  


Amber eyes look up to burn into your flesh. “Better than lookin’ like one.” The transition from love to hate starts. He doesn’t mean that he thinks  _you_ look like a pig. But that doesn’t stop you from twitching your fingers and having his cup noodles explode in his face. Gladio sputters and wipes broth and noodles from his eyes. By the time he can see again, you’ve stormed off. When he gets home, Iris picks dried noodle out of his hair.

He doesn’t know what got into you.  Dumb banter has  _always_ been a thing with you two. The shared passion for disgusting food and fine literature; to be the best in your field and to bring honor to your family; for innuendo and for embarrassing each other. Varied and strange passions. But they’re still  _shared_ passions.  But the dumb banter, this time around, deals with hurt feelings. Feelings Gladio is unaware of.

Iris is the first one to notice. She watches you as you watch her brother. The grin on her face is so big when she catches you outside of the gym. You’d just been about to enter and apologize for the other day when you saw Gladio, shirtless and sweating, and couldn’t bring yourself to step inside. You nearly jump out of your skin when the little Amicitia confronts you.  “Hey, (y/n)!” She greets loud enough for Gladio to hear. “Are you training today?”

Eyes are simmering as you reply stiffly, “I was going to... but your brother is  _hogging_ the space. I’ll come back later when that fool is gone.”

And Gladiolus stops at the door where he had been ready to greet you when he hears the haughty sneer in your voice. Thus continues the transition into hate. It’s over the pettiest of things. Always over misunderstandings that you’re both too stubborn to explain. You both think that you’re right and the other is wrong. Two strong personalities that give little room for recourse. The funny thing is, though, that it isn’t even properly “hate.” But you’re both too stubborn to even realize  _that_.

And then you hear that he’s started dating. You’re seventeen and have never dated anyone, never even kissed anyone except for that one time you accidentally ran into Ignis and busted your mouth open against his... which, to be honest, bleeding into someone else’s mouth isn’t romantic. So, you don’t count it.  But Gladiolus is  _twenty_. And you hear that he’s been seeing a lot of people, some of whom are older than him. He has his own apartment (Gods, Iris wouldn’t stop crying when she told you he’d moved out.) and he’s living his own life. Meanwhile, you can’t leave the Citadel even if you wanted to because of your flock of magisters.

“I want to get a job.”

Uncle Reggie doesn’t have a problem with it.  He knows you’ve been unhappy these past few months and he’s sympathetic. But your job options are limited since the Spire won’t let you get just  _any_ part-time work. So, that’s how you end up being a tutor at a local university. They’d been giddy at the opportunity to have the future arcane advisor to the king tutor students in a wide variety of magic.  And that’s how you wind up being exposed to more people in your age group. That’s how you end up going on a literal gauntlet of dates, which Noctis and Prompto openly talk about (rather conveniently) around Gladio. Somewhere along the line, that fake hate gives way to something new and very real:  _Jealousy._

And, boy, is it ugly.

Ignis Scientia and Iris Amicitia are the ones to point out Gladio’s hypocrisy to him. But they both do it in different ways. Iggy is far more delicate, more reserved and level-headed about how he approaches the situation. But Iris? Well, being the cute baby sister affords her the opportunity to be more blunt and unapologetic. “You did this to yourself, Gladdy. I  _told_ you (y/n) liked you and what did you do? You went and dated other people!” She huffs. “What did you think would happen? Did you expect (y/n) would wait around? And you could stand to be nicer to them...”

Gladiolus glares at his sister from under the bill of his baseball cap. “Where’s this comin’ from? What makes you think I’m upset about (y/n) goin’ around town with strangers?”

Iris blinks slowly at him, to convey through that gesture alone that he’s a moron. “Hm... I wonder if it’s a happy accident that we’re at the same restaurant as (y/n) and their date? Let’s see what (y/n) thinks.” She cups her hands around her mouth and calls before Gladio can stop her, “Hey, (y/n)! Over here! What a  _coincidence_!”

Despite Iris’ pointed looks, you’re under the impression that Gladiolus Amicitia is in the same restaurant as you and your date by accident. You give the Amicitias an awkward wave which Iris eagerly responds to while Gladio gives you a curt nod, expression stony. Brow quirked, you go back to your date which is like a slo-mo car crash. Honestly, all of your dates are akin to a slow-motion car crash. Or train wreck. Or any other sort of horrible disaster with a high body count. This is due in part to your awkwardness and your dedication to your duty as arcane advisor, which has put the kibosh on a few romantic dalliances that you briefly entertained.

However, it’s not that you actually center your whole world around Noctis. Oh, no. In truth, it’s a clever ruse. It’s an infallible out for you. So long as you give off the impression of being too busy for romance, no one will know that you actually  _fail_ at romance...  That you can’t click with any of these people because you’re still hung up on the stupid Amicitia and how you clicked with him.  Did I say “infallible” out? I meant it’s a sad one. And it becomes a source of gossip.

Gladio has heard many a rumor about your failed romances over the past year. And it irritates him. It irritates him that there’s gossip about you, that your name is being besmirched, and it irritates him that there’s something to gossip about in the first place.  He’s headed toward the gym when he hears your name. It’s breathy, spoken as a whisper followed by knowing tuts and the clucking of tongues.

“(y/n) is in the gym. Best avoid the area.”

“Why? Are they upset?”

“You could say that...”

“I heard they answered their phone in the middle of the date and had an entire conversation for  _five minutes_.”

“What? Was it an emergency?”

“No. The prince was bored, apparently.”

“Didn’t he know that (y/n) was on a date?”

“Of course not! They don’t tell him those things.”

“Why not? They grew up together...”

“I suppose they didn’t want him to worry. Or maybe they thought it would be unprofessional to inform His Highness about their social life.”

“Like how it’s unprofessional to gossip about His Highness’ arcane advisor?” Gladio drawls from the shadows like some comic book villain in a tracksuit and the workers scatter like roaches. Later, some will say he had a baseball bat in his hand that day, like some gangster. He totally didn’t. It was a foot-long sub in a plastic bag. Gladiolus is  _pissed_ after hearing that. What the hell are you thinking, going on dates only to act like that? You’re eighteen, not twelve! But who can he turn to about his frustrations? Certainly not Iris. Though his sister is sympathetic, she’s also a very good friend of yours and Gladio doesn’t want another rehash of how this situation is all his fault.

_So..._

This is all getting to be a bit much -- a bit ridiculous for Ignis Scientia. Gladiolus has spoken to Ignis about you  _several_ times. In fact, Ignis knows about the older brunet’s crush on you  _before_ either of you do. He always listens with a straight face (maybe a raised eyebrow here and there) as the Shield-in-training bitches on, and on, and on about you the same way you do about Gladio.  It’s never-ending. Ignis Scientia feels like he’s stuck in hell.

What did he do to deserve this? Have the misfortune of befriending both you and Gladio? Does he have a face that says, “Please, come to me with your obvious crush and don’t listen to my advice”? Because based on stubbornness alone, you and Gladio are made for each other.

“They’re simply being dutiful,” Ignis defends you, as usual. “I was aware of the call that was made. Noctis was having difficulties with his stomach and (y/n) was talking him through how to make a potion.”

“ _Dutiful_?” Gladio scoffs. “It’s going beyond duty, Iggy. Noct could’ve just taken Pepto like the rest of  us. This codependency is weird, bordering on unhealthy. (y/n) needs to start makin’ a life for themselves outside of His Highness. You ever watch  _Bates Motel_?”

Yes, Ignis had... with  _you_. And although he can see distinct parallels, he doesn’t wholly agree that you center your universe around Noctis any more than he has. Ignis sighs, “Noctis isn’t Norma and (y/n) certainly isn’t Norman. (y/n) isn’t nearly that polite and we both know Noctis can’t keep his bedroom clean much less an entire motel.”

Ignis Scientia then makes a deduction that further pisses Gladiolus off: Gladio is  _jealous_. “I’m  _not_ jealous of him or anyone else.”

“(y/n) always defends him and always scolds you. They always choose to spend their time with him and never have a spare moment for you unless it’s to reprimand you about your treatment of Noctis. And when they aren’t spending their time with Noctis, they’re either out at the theater with me or out on a date.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s their duty to be with Noctis...” Gladio grumbles, feeling his cheeks warm up under his friend’s knowing gaze.

Iggy smirks. “Which is what I had said before and yet you said that wasn’t the case.”

He has Gladio there. To Ignis, it’s like seeing a lightbulb finally switch on above his friend’s head. Sure, Gladio had noticed that he was finding your antics more humorous than annoying over the past few years but he thought maybe he was finally losing his mind. Or you cast a spell on him... Can you even  _do_ that?  And what good does his little crush do if you don’t feel the same way? ‘Cause, let’s be honest here, he’s pretty sure you hate him. Ever since the ramen debacle what feels like centuries ago, things have never been the same between you two. You’re less friendly, always so stiff around him. He can’t even get you to  _smile_...

Gladiolus stares at his hands before looking Iggy in the eye and sincerely asking, “What should I do?”

“What do you mean? I thought you prided yourself on being able to communicate effectively with others.”

“This isn’t just anyone,” Gladio points out, “this is  _(y/n)_.”  


Though Ignis fails to see the difference, he tries to helpfully supply, “Well, I know they enjoyed  your humor back when you two were on good terms.”

“Okay, yeah. I guess I’ll...”  


“Be less obnoxious? That certainly wouldn’t hurt things.”

Wrong.  It only serves to infuriate you. Because while you huff and puff, barely refrain from stamping your foot like a petulant child with each of his biting jokes at your expense (or, Ramuh save the guy,  _Noctis’_ expense), slowly but surely the older brunet stops reciprocating venom with venom. He starts to smirk. He starts to  _chuckle_.

“Does he think I’m some kind of a joke?” You seethe in Ignis’ presence. The movie theater is empty save for the two of you. Angrily, you shove a fistful of popcorn in your mouth and struggle to  talk around it. “The other day I threatened to roast him alive for bruising Noct’s cheek and you know what he did?”

“What did he do?” Ignis asks, resigned to his fate as a couple’s counselor. The bespectacled brunet stares at the screen, emerald eyes watching as an alien baby bursts from a man’s chest. He takes a sip from his can of Ebony that you smuggled in by way of your bulky cardigan.

“He laughed!”

Ignis places the can in the cupholder to his left and turns to look at you. Instead of being an enabler and telling you what you want to hear (namely, that Gladio’s a dick and how dare he rough up Noctis even though it’s to be expected in training) Ignis admits, “Once someone gets to know you, (y/n), you’re hardly intimidating. I suppose the  _magic_ wore off.”

“The  _magic_? Iggs are you making a joke? ‘Cause I’m not in the mood.”  


“Think about it like this: You’ve been threatening him with the same punishments for a while now  and you’ve yet to follow through.”

“Hm...” Ignis watches as those wicked eyes return to the screen and you smirk evilly. “I like what you’re saying, Ignis.”

He sighs, “Somehow, I don’t think you got what I wanted you to get out of that.”

“Pretty sure I did.”  


You don’t.  Ignis wants you to grow up and stop shooting empty threats Gladio’s way every chance you get. That way, maybe, just  _maybe_ , you’ll see that the older guy is fond of you the same way that you’re fond of him (though sometimes Iggy wonders if you still even  _like_ the guy since you’re so damn hard to read sometimes). Win-win. Except that’s not the route you take.

Gladio punches your shoulder.  _Hard_. And honestly? After the stunt you pulled, you’re lucky that’s all you’re getting in return. Still, you overreact to it. Back is against the wall with a loud  _thud!_ and you’re grabbing your shoulder dramatically, crocodile tears in your eyes as you whine, “Ow! I’m just a poor, defenseless mage!”

“Defenseless? You just set my pants on fire!”

“Because you’re a liar. It’s poetic justice.”

“I don’t think poetic justice means what you think it means, Magey. And how the hell am  _I_ a liar? You’re the only silver-tongued, sneak-thief devil standing in this room right now.”

“Ah,” you wink and tap your temple, “but you  _did_ lie. The other day you said Noctis wasn’t getting any better at his drills. But he is. He’s an  _exceptional_ fighter, Gladiolus, and it wouldn’t kill you to pay him a compliment every once in a while.”

What irritates you to no end about Gladiolus Amicitia is his brazen lack of respect for your prince. It’s not that you expect him to kiss Noct’s ass or anything and it’s not that he’s  _actually_ so disrespectful that his behavior would warrant a reprimand. No. You’re just a little touchy when it comes to Noctis.  If anyone thinks you have an overinflated sense of self-worth (and, oh, how they’re wrong), they have  _no idea_ the pedestal you’ve put Noctis on. You may not kowtow to the prince’s every desire,  you may be downright authoritarian when it comes to his studies, but there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that you spoil the raven-haired Crown Prince  _rotten_.  And why wouldn’t you? He’s your best friend. The first friend you ever made. However, maybe you’re a  _tiny_ bit-  


“Obnoxious.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, rearing your staff around to let it rest on your shoulder. The weight of it is downright unwieldy at times, but it’s also a comfort. Mostly because you know it can knock Gladiolus Amicitia right on his ass if need be. Even  _without_ magic.

The older brunet crosses his arms and scowls at you. You’re drenched in sweat, a large dark spot down your chest. He almost snorts at your exercise gear: ratty sweatpants and a t-shirt from Noctis’ part-time job... some sushi joint that the prince banned you from going near ever again when you complained about his service to the manager.  When he’s stared you down long enough, Gladio snaps, “I try to be nice to you and what does it get me? You set my favorite tracksuit on fire.”

“Gladdy, let’s be honest: I did everyone with  _eyes_ a favor by doing that. Every time you go out to train, you dress like a damn mafioso. All you need is the gold chain.”

He rolls his eyes. “Excuse me for matching my clothes. Not everyone likes to look like a damn hobo.” A wicked smirk flits across his face. “That’s it... You’re the Hobo Mage.”

You roll your eyes in kind. “Shut the hell up.”

“Why don’t you make me?” He’s trying to rile you up and you know it. However, you don’t know what he’s trying to rile you up  _for_. To you, this is classic Gladiolus picking a fight. In reality, the brunet is trying to see if something interesting can come from this confrontation. Something mutually beneficial. And if not? So be it. He won’t push it.

“Because I need to serve Noctis as arcane advisor and can’t afford to go to prison for murder. Now, go train at home or cease your bitching and train here.”

Gladio snorts, “Cease my bitching? How the hell you manage to be a pompous bastard with the mouth of a thug is beyond me.”

“I’d wager there are  _a lot_ of things that are beyond you, Amicitia.”

He frowns at the insult but he stays to train.  The gym smells of smoke and sweat. After a while, it starts to give you a headache but you push through it, not wanting to give Gladiolus a chance to tease you for only training for a short period of time before bailing out. It’s when he takes off his slightly burned pants to train in his boxers that you let yourself falter.  Yes. Gladio sees it. He’s always teasing like you both used to do. Always on and on with the innuendo because he finds  it equally amusing when the innuendo goes over your head as when you actually understand it and start sputtering. But then he pushes it too far. Rather, he decides to tease you when your patience is thin and you want nothing more than to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off of his face. 

“Pretty nimble, huh?”

You glance up from performing your drills, have a hard time looking him in the eye with that damn, thin underwear of his. Lately, Ignis has been teaching you to handle your staff the same way he handles a spear. The guy is brutal with his training but you’re a fast learner and have been excelling. And your blood is pumping. “I guess.”  


“Weaving spells, cutting roots, picking locks... Anything you can’t do with those hands?”

There’s a loud crack in the air as you slam your staff down. Inhaling deeply, you snap on the exhale, eyes everywhere but Gladio, “Actually, yes. I’ve thought about wrapping them around your neck but, alas, I can’t do that.”

“So, something mutually enjoyable, huh?”

Dammit. You  _almost_ laugh. “Ramuh spares you every day that you’re in my presence and trying my patience, Gladiolus. Some say the Astrals have turned their backs on us.” Eyes cut to him, hold his gaze, and you drawl, “You’re living proof that at least one of them hasn’t.”

“As if you could take me down, Magey.”  


Arms crossed, you saunter over to the brunet and snark, “I could take you down any time I want, Gladiolus. Your mistake is in thinking that as a mage I’m  _frail_.”  It’s when you’re so close to him that it happens. With the feeling of his body heat radiating through to you, with your blood pumping from exercise, with the hint of whatever soap he uses in the air, you falter. Your constitution fails. And you do what you’d been trying to avoid doing the whole time: You glance down. Gods, Gladio was wishing you wouldn’t do that.

Honestly, he was starting to regret his decision to take off his pants when you started grunting as you were swinging that damn staff around. As he watched the sweat roll down your neck, muscles tensing, jaw clenching, brow furrowing. His goal was to embarrass  _you_. Now, all he’s done is embarrass himself.  Because his erection is painfully obvious without his ugly-ass pants. Heat rushes into his cheeks. “Listen, Magey, I-”  


“ Take them off.”  


He’s shocked. You’re shocked. The whole damn world is shocked. The command has his blood on fire, totally unaware of your plight. You’re having an out-of-body experience because you only meant to  _think_ that bold command and then have this whole dirty train of thought... But then you said it. Aloud. And his expression doesn’t read disgust. His desire mirrors your own. Gladiolus feels like he might combust when you put your hands on his shoulders and make him sit on the floor so you can straddle his legs. All he can do is watch as your hand snakes down to palm him through his underwear, fingers straying on the damp spot by his waistband, circling.

He thinks you’re going to make a joke when your lips quirk. You almost do. Those nimble hands make quick work of him. Gladio has never finished so quickly in his entire life. Then again, he never had the object of his affection lowkey dominating him while also somehow managing to be all abashed by asking intermittently, “Is this okay? How does that feel?”

Amber eyes stare up at you, wide and foggy with lust, as you wipe your hands off on your gym towel before fidgeting at the sight of his exposed lower half. Teeth bite down on your lip. Hesitantly, you gently wipe him clean and then awkwardly tuck him back into his underwear. And he lets you. Gladiolus Amicitia thinks he might have died.

Throat is cleared loudly, too loudly. “So.  _Yeah_. Um. I’m done for the day, so I’ll see you la-”

Before you know what’s happening, you’re pulled down on top of him, teeth biting down on the juncture between your neck and shoulder before lips latch on and he sucks. One hand holds the back of your neck while the other slides between your thighs to cup you. You slip out from his grasp with ease and wag your finger.  Gladiolus is already breathless again just from that little bit of contact. Though he wanted to return the favor (he’s never been one to simply receive and not reciprocate) he takes your move as reluctance. “Sorry, I-”

The smirk on your face is pure evil. “ _No_. This is what happens when you tease me.” When you see his nonplussed expression, you snicker, “I took you down, didn’t I? Let this be a lesson to you, Amicitia.”

A lesson? The hell kinda lesson was that? All he can do is watch as you turn and exit the gym. When he finally finds his voice, he calls out after you, “Y’know, you’re hardly discouraging me, Magey!”

After what Gladio thereafter calls in his head the “Gym Room Handjob,” the dynamic shifts again to something else: Tension. There’s no doubt in your mind that nothing is ever going to be the same between you two again. You can’t just jerk someone off and then act like nothing happened! Well, you  _could_ if you tried hard enough... But you don’t want things to go back to how they were. You don’t want to go back to awkward dates and brooding over the news that Gladio is on yet another one.

However, you don’t know how you’re supposed to ask him out after what happened in the gym. Hell, you can’t even look him in the eye! The good news for you is that you don’t have to make the first move... because technically you already did. Gladio showed his interest in you in the most obvious way possible... and so did you. Gladiolus got the green light to confront you and demand more than ask: “So, are we dating or is this a casual thing?”

Choking on coffee is pure pain. You didn’t even know Gladiolus had sneaked into your bedroom until he spoke. And about him sneaking into your room? Well... it’s not like you left him many options. You’ve been avoiding the gym and his favorite haunts for the past week. You’ve left his texts on read, too. Now, that part  _really_ pissed him off. Gladiolus watches soberly as you wipe down your alchemy table, swearing all the while. You’re sweating bullets. Shit, you swear you’ve broken out in hives, you’re so damn nervous. “I-I don’t know,” you confess once you’ve finished.

“Well, what do you want? Tell me and we’ll go from there.”

You squint. “What?” And bare your heart to him for him to brutally curb stomp at his discretion? Hell to the no. “No!  _You_ tell  _me_.”

The brunet crosses his arms slowly and gives you a contemplative look. He still looks pissed, though. Honestly, he’s been brooding since you curved him in the gym. I mean, who the hell curves someone after...  _aftercare_? He’s still reeling over it. “How ‘bout we say it at the same time?”

“What are we, ki-?” The look on his face makes you choke on your joke. “Okay. Fine. Three... two... two-and-a-half _-_ ”

“(y/n).” Uh-oh. He said your name. He’s not in the mood for jokes. The brunet takes the countdown into his own hands. “Three. Two. One.”

Eyes squeeze shut and you confess, “I want to date you!”  


“I want you to quit messin’ around and date me already, Magey.”

Gladio wishes he had a camera for this moment, what with your eyes so big and your mouth hanging open. Instead, he has to burn it into his memory. To see that haughty mage who has never ceased to annoy him since childhood like this? Speechless? He didn’t think it was possible. However, he leaves you speechless several times during your romance.  Very quickly, you two go from annoying everyone with your arguing to annoying everyone with your playful jabs and innuendo. The innuendo is what really kills and mentally scars the others. But it’s not always sunshine. You’re both so stubborn that you break up too many times to keep up with during your two-year relationship.

“I was stupid.”  


“You bet you were.”  


The lines are easily flipped and always applicable.  But you always get back together. Arguments don’t last long since you two learn to communicate. Rather, Gladio learns to reel in his temper and you learn to vocalize exactly what upsets you rather than leaving Gladiolus fumbling in the dark and replaying your last conversation over and over in his head for clues.  You start to get a little wary when Clarus Amicitia begins asking you over for dinner. You’re on red-alert when you find your mother there one evening. And thus your relationship with Gladiolus becomes a way for the king’s friends and advisors to talk about how the two families will be united. Not once do you look at Gladiolus. Iris keeps grabbing your arm.

That dinner from hell should’ve been your first clue. Because where the hell would Clarus get the idea that your relationship was even that serious? But you wrote it off as overbearing parents with stars in their eyes. And maybe it was also the product of Iris constantly sounding off about you  and her brother being such a “cute couple.”  It’s as you’re in your room, packing for the trip to Altissia, that Gladio knocks on your doorframe and announces, “Hey, Magey, when everything’s settled, I gotta ask you something.”

“No, I’m not moving into your dumpy apartment. I’m a mage with standards. Personally, I don’t like finding rats in the stairwell unless they’re mine. Speaking of which, you may or may not have noticed that there’s one less friendly rat in your apartment’s stairwell and that there’s a cage in the corner of my room. The two are unrelated, I assure you.”

“For the last time, (y/n), you can’t just pick up wild ani-” Gladio takes a breath and rubs his forehead, “Never mind. I’ll let His Majesty lecture you like he did about the pigeons. Anyway, it’s not about the apartment this time.”

You whirl around and let your duffle bag drop to the floor. “Oh? You have my undivided attention.” When he doesn’t immediately respond, instead staring you down with that intense amber gaze, you whine, “So? Tell me already, Gladdy!”

A smirk quirks his lips and he shakes his head at you. “Nah. I’ll surprise you when we get back.”

“You know I hate surprises...” you trail off with an unamused frown.  


“You’ll like this one.”  


“We’ll see about that."

* * *

**Multi-Route: Bros x Reader**

To outsiders looking in, you’re all a little close. Not even _too_  close. Maybe just friends? Maybe just four people bound by duty? There are many moving parts to this well-oiled machine and outsiders only see what’s on the surface: Four people who get along despite having vastly different personalities. You all mesh well.

However, the “machine” is only so “well-oiled” because of a lot of concessions (like… _a lot_ ). There are come-to-Ramuh sessions (“Stop calling it that. Ramuh has nothin’ to do with this, Magey.” “He so does.” “Oh? So Ramuh missed paying the electrical bill?” “If you weren’t so pissed, you’d realize how funny that question is.”) and  _everyone_  is involved.

Everyone is something different to someone else.

The guys fill different roles for you. You’d confide about your insecurities to Noctis before Gladiolus because you prefer a listener to someone who will ( _kindly_ ) tell you to put up or shut up. You’d talk to Ignis about a plethora of embarrassing issues over Noctis because Iggy has a delicate touch and good bedside manner.

You’d go to Gladio concerning private grievances or frustrations because he’s not easily made uncomfortable or agitated by such topics. And you fill many roles for the men you love. Even this perspective doesn’t do the relationship justice, however. Because you don’t all go to each other in search of different “parts.”

A stolen glance from Ignis may lighten Noct’s mood, a tender kiss from Gladio may soothe the prince after a long day, and a squeeze of his hand from you may ease his tension. Gladio may draw strength from Noct’s mere presence, he may be put at ease by a chat with Iggy, and he may get a laugh out of daring you to eat food that makes you both gag.

And Ignis might seek solace in Noct’s quiet company, he may find comfort in Gladio’s arms, and he may be spoiled by that clever and wicked mage. Yet none of that even begins to scratch the surface. Because these roles all intertwine; these “parts” all contribute to the whole.

Everyone is respected as a whole person. 

There are well-defined lines that everyone is made aware of. Because everyone is involved with each other, dates are made known so as not to step on any toes. Jealousy, possessiveness, and other complicated emotions are all things that have to be addressed promptly and respectfully.

It’s a complicated dance that you’ve all miraculously found the rhythm to.

But some things can almost make all or some of you fall out of step.

You and Ignis are a united front when it comes to who is allowed entry into this tight-knit relationship. Gladio has had lovers but there was never any intention of having them involved in the relationship. It’s honestly a little strange that it’s  _you and Iggy_  who the others look to since the relationship started with  _Iggy and Gladio_.

Maybe it’s that protective instinct? You and the bespectacled brunet certainly possess it in spades. This protection is a different animal than Gladio’s, though, and you and Iggy are adept at reading people and finding out their intentions. You’re quite possibly the scariest ones in the relationship since you two abide no bullshit.

Despite this, you’re all equals.

Gladio and Iggy were together for about a month before you were brought into the fold by Ignis and his pretty words, then Noctis got involved a year later, lured by your sneaky grin, and now… Something is about to throw you all out of step. Because you and Noctis both have a cute blond boyfriend whom you’ve been dating for a few months. Starting as best friends made things easy.

But Noctis wants to ask Prompto if this is a serious relationship.

And you want to clear the air.

While you’re rather easygoing in relationships, the prince has never been one to fool around. But you and Noctis are having a bit of a time informing Prompto Argentum that those two intimidating guys he sees you two hanging out with? Yeah, you’re all romantically involved. There are jackets and a secret handsha-

“We’re  _not_  saying that,” Noct laughs, nearly choking on his strawberry smoothie to shoot you a half-hearted scowl. “Don’t scare him off, (y/n), and don’t make it a joke either.”

“You fell for  _my_ jokes,” you point out lamely, “and you know I wouldn’t do anything to scare Prompto… outside of pranks, of course.”

“Come on. You  _know_  how nervous he was when we started dating.”

Compassionate Noctis.

With a smile, you grab the raven-haired prince’s hand beneath the table and sip your tea. The café you’re waiting in is busy enough so people are too caught up in the rabble; trying to talk over the thunder outside. Lucky, because this is serious business that requires at least a modicum of privacy. Unlucky, because private talks make Prompto Argentum nervous. Hence the public venue.

“Noct, I think we might be a little confused about what’s going on here.” You level him with a contemplative look. “We’re telling Prom about our relationship with Iggs and Gladdy, not telling him ‘join or die.’ Besides, when we started this, I informed him that you and I were involved with other people. This is just us finally telling him who those people are.”

That pale brow furrows. “What?”

“Do you not know me? I’m not in the business of leading people on, Noct. The less misunderstandings, the better.” Lessons learned from the combined forces of Iggy and Gladio. You release his hand to stir more sugar into your tea. “And Prompto is too sweet to lead on.”

“So, you’d lead less sweet people on?” Noct asks to keep things conversational. He’s all nerves, you can tell, and trying to be lighthearted despite how his palms sweat. Hand dips back under the table to gently rub his thigh and give it a comforting pat before you finish trying to make your tea palatable. Gods, why is it so dry?

Pursing your lips, you inform Noct, “Manipulation is a necessary evil in this world.”

“Nice philosophy,” he jokes wryly.

Before a philosophical debate can begin, the tiny bell above the café’s door tinkles and the small store is filled with the sound of rain cascading outside. A figure in a soaked jacket and hoodie rushes in and sneakers slip briefly. Prompto swears his life flashes before his eyes in that moment before (y/n) Iovita steadies him from their spot at the table near the entrance.

“Hey, Sunshine,” you greet Prompto, standing up and gently pressing your lips to his, his wet hands immediately going to your waist. You don’t know it, but Noct secretly resents how you’re able to publicly lavish the blond with affection outside of the Citadel when no magisters are around. “You’re a little late,” you gently admonish.

“Sorry,” Prompto sighs in relief as he finally sits, soaked to the bone, “it’s really pouring out there.”

Noct waits for the blond to get comfortable before nodding toward the cup on the table. “Got your favorite.”

“Thanks!” After taking a sip, Prom asks, “So, what’d you two want to talk about?”

There’s a slight tremor in his voice. You and Noct exchange a look. Shouldn’t have done that, because now Prompto’s anxiety is through the roof. Jaw tightens and he begins sucking down his bubble tea like a top of the line high-suction vacuum cleaner. You watch tapioca pearls shoot up the straw for a moment.

Reaching over, you wipe Prompto’s soaked, floppy bangs out of his eyes. The affectionate gesture relieves him of some of his tension. With a disarming smile, you explain, “Noctis and I have a question for you and a bit of information, as well.”

“Um.” He adjusts in his seat. Damns himself for drinking so quickly because now his head and stomach hurt a bit. “Okay.”

Noct looks to you, too awkward with relationship talks. Usually, he’s pretty good when it comes to communicating with his lovers, but this is uncharted territory for him. No matter. You’re always happy to aid your little dork. “We were wondering, Prompto, how things are going with this relationship. Are you happy?”

Freckled cheeks blush prettily and the blond grins. “Yeah. Things are going great.”

“Good.” Head bobs and tea is sipped. “Speaking for myself, I’m content. Noct?”

“Yeah. Same.”

Eyes cut to the prince, a bit irritated for him acting so flippant. “It’s also about time we tell you about the other relationships we’re in. I know I briefly informed you of the situation when we started dating, but for privacy concerns, I didn’t fully disclose all information.”

“Gosh, (y/n), you’re sounding like a lawyer or something,” Noct jokes, fidgeting with his smoothie. Pale fingers whisk away the condensation from the plastic cup; fingertips are a little pruny. The prince busies himself with sticking a paper napkin to the cup as a makeshift cupholder. This nervous behavior is all done under your amused gaze.

“I’m simply being frank, Noct.” You return your gaze to Prompto and say, “After consulting with everyone else, I now have permission to tell you who Noct and I are involved with-”

One pale eyebrow quirks. “Wait. You’re both involved with the same person?”

“People,” you correct. “Noct and I are both involved with Ignis and Gladiolus. You’ve met them a few times.”

His reaction is everything you thought it would be. Those pale eyebrows take a trip to the moon and his mouth forms a cute little “O” for a moment before the puzzle pieces fall into place. You can see him analyzing all of yours and Noct’s interactions with Gladio and Iggy through a new lens and he  _totally sees it now_!

Then he remembers himself and hastily responds, “Ye-Yeah. I’ve talked to Ignis more than Gladiolus, though. Um...” He trails off. In truth, when you told him from the get-go that you and Noct were dating people who were totally cool with you two seeing other people, he’d been trying to guess who they were. The blond is quiet for too long.

Noct pats Prompto’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! It’s just-” Prompto laughs, “Wow. That seems kinda complicated.”

“You’ve  _no_  idea.” You chuckle, latching onto Prompto’s ease, and yelp when Noct elbows you in the ribs. “Chill. He already knows what a needy boyfriend _you_ a- Ah! Okay, that one really hurt.”

“Don’t be mean to (y/n),” Prompto scolds, trying hard not to smile.

Noct pouts, thoroughly chastened. “Sorry. But also, you deserved it, (y/n).”

“Anyway,” you roll your eyes but focus your attention on the blond and how he’s feeling, “are you okay with this, Prompto? Are you okay continuing on with this relationship knowing that Noctis and I are in a romantic relationship with two other people?”

Prom shrugs, not really seeing what the big deal is. “Well, yeah. I mean, you told me about it before and I just misunderstood and thought you were both dating someone else.” And then he adds, not really even thinking, “Do you think they’d be okay with-?” He stops himself. Stops himself from revealing something he’s wondered for a while.

Prompto doesn’t mean to be selfish -- in fact, this question of his doesn’t come from a selfish place. He’s always had a lingering interest in Gladiolus Amicitia and Ignis Scientia. They’ve seemed too cool and aloof for a dork like him. But they’re okay with you and Noctis having a relationship with him and  _trust him_  enough to give you permission to talk about it…

Ugh. He doesn’t want to bring it up and seem like some desperate loser. Even worse, he doesn’t want to seem like an opportunist who wants to turn the best, most fulfilling relationship he’s ever had into an opening for an orgy. ‘Cause Prompto Argentum always overthinks things. And he thinks that you and Noct will think the worst of him if he asks.

But you’re too sharp.

“Hm. You know that they’ve known of this relationship from the start, so I assume  _that’s_  not what you’re asking. Are you asking if Ignis and Gladiolus would want to be romantically involved with you, sweetheart?” Prom turns red at the evil smile that curls your lips. “Because all you have to do is ask them out on a date, if that’s what you want.”

You can feel Noct’s eyes on you.

To add another moving part to this machine?

Honestly, you don’t see the sense in acting like it’s any great stretch of the imagination that Gladio and Iggy would be interested in Prom. He’s charming! You wouldn’t steer the blond in the wrong direction and you love to see the little shutterbug happy. And if they  _aren’t_  interested? Well, you’ve always had a talent for consoling Prompto.

“Besides,” you tell Noct when he pulls you aside after you go your separate ways from Prom, “in a selfish way it would be easier than juggling two serious relationships.”

“Two?”

Eyes roll at the prince’s incredulous expression. “Okay, you know what I mean. Right now I have one relationship with you and Prompto and then I have _another one_ with you, Ignis, and Gladiolus. Two. Count ‘em, Noct. I like to compartmentalize! And if this works out, you’re not getting two anniversary gifts anymore.”

“You’re such a dork.”

And you don’t hold true to that empty threat. Noct is lavished with your affection as usual despite the merging of the relationships. Prompto enters the relationship as seamlessly as you predicted in this already well-oiled machine. He brings a levity you all didn’t know was needed; he complements the established dynamic well.

To outsiders looking in, you’re all suspiciously close.  _Maybe_  just friends? Maybe just five people bound by duty? It doesn’t seem likely. Something more is going on there. Because one of those five lacks in the discretion department and this causes others to “misbehave.” But even if outsiders can’t put their finger on it, they know one thing: You all mesh well.

But then comes the treaty and the machine comes grinding to a halt.

And you fall out of step.


	5. Mea Culpa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: 
> 
> _Heyo! I was wondering if you could write about the bros (individually) trying to serenade Magey after having an argument pretty early into their endlessly au relationship?_
> 
> Movie and music references for each bro:
> 
> Noctis: “Without You” by Air Supply  
> Prompto: The stereo scene in "Say Anything" and the song is "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel  
> Ignis: Feist’s “So Sorry”  
> Gladiolus: Roy Orbison’s “Crying”
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, The Mildest of Angst, Second Hand Shame Through the Roof, Fluff, Intense Tense Flippage, OOC Galore, Noct is a Big Ol’ Dork, Don’t be Mean to Prompto Please, Iggy Needs to Play Nice, But Y’all Need to Agree on How to Raise Your Child, Suddenly Song Lyrics, Why is This a Trend for My Ignis Stuff?, Ego Ego Ego, Gladio is a Mage Charmer

**Mea Culpa**

** Noctis Route**

He's a dork. A massive dork. You've always known this yet you're still taken aback by how he chooses to apologize to you. No, it's not with gifts or a simple apology. You honestly would've been satisfied with the latter. But... he's a massive, _massive_ dork. And, dammit, you just can't stop smiling right now.  He doesn't even really have a _proper reason_ to apologize.  Did he do something harmful? No. Did he purposefully hurt your feelings? No. Going down the checklist of why couples argue, you leave every box unchecked. There isn’t really a “he looked me dead in the eye as we both reached for the same tart and then shoved the whole thing in his mouth” box. 

Noct can be unintentionally abrasive when he gets in one of his sour moods and you can have thin skin at times. And then, when the stars align, these two unfortunate things can occur at the same time, which is exactly what happened with so much drama that Noctis thought he was on stage for a moment.  You were hungry, okay?! And he didn’t have to be so smug about being quicker on the draw than you. After a long day of studying and being harangued by magisters, you just needed _one little bit_ of silver-lining today. And Noctis went and basically inhaled it. He didn’t even savor it! 

What makes this doubly unfortunate is that you and Noctis are (secretly) dating...  So, that makes _this_ your first argument as a couple. Maybe that's why Noct pulls out all the stops? Because it's certainly not because he thinks he's in the wrong. When it comes to getting the last bite of dessert, Noctis Lucis Caelum is _always_ in the right... he just didn't need to act so damn childish about it. 

Footsteps echo in the empty corridor. He glances around, making sure he won't be spotted entering your chambers so late. Though you’re constantly sneaking into his room,  _you’ve_ memorized the Citadel’s layout, secret passages and all, and Noct still gets lost on his way to his bedroom if he isn’t paying attention.  Your best friend and boyfriend slides into your room through a crack in the door like a shifty cat, eyes downcast and expression properly remorseful. You’re still licking your wounds, the argument over pastries having taken place only a couple of hours ago. Such fresh treachery has you ordering him out. 

Big, imploring blue eyes peer at you from beneath dark bangs but you aren’t having it. All those years growing up together afford you some minor armor against the prince’s doleful look. Leaning back in your chair at your desk, you drawl, “ _Out_ , Your Highness.” 

Obstinate and mouth just a bit pouty, the prince closes the door and locks it behind him with a half-mumbled, "I'm sorry" falling from his lips.  Honestly? You’re content with that. Gods, you should’ve _said so_ , ‘cause the raven-haired royal whips out his phone and starts scrolling through the many songs you and Prom downloaded onto it without his permission. He picks something sappy, something he doesn't know is gonna scar you both for life. 

"Without You" by Air Supply. 

Is it possible to die from second-hand shame?  Trying to fade into oblivion while wearing a smile, you almost hope so. Singing tenuously with the cold reality of his lack of knowledge of the _actual_ lyrics to this song setting in, so does Noct. He stares beyond you with that thousand-yard stare. You focus on his right ear and pretend to maintain eye contact.  It isn't planned. Noct can be a bit spontaneous like that. This adds to the cringe factor because he's winging it and you can tell that he's winging it and he can tell that you can tell that he's winging it and... It's a mess. It's a wonderful and horrible mess. Especially because he doesn't know half the lyrics to this song. 

Which... it’s a _short_ song so that’s incredibly unfortunate. Right out of the gate, he doesn’t know these damn lyrics. Hell, with how you and Prom would serenade each other, Noct was pretty sure the chorus was the only part. Now he's just sweating, humming kinda loud and off-key, waiting for the chorus.  Sitting at your desk, you feel like you’re being tortured. Standing in front of your desk with sweaty palms and a heart that's about to give out, Noct feels like you're judge, jury, and executioner... emphasis on executioner ‘cause he's pretty sure he's about to die and by his own half-baked plan, no less. 

Regret.  


This is what regret sounds like. 

Well, you wanted him to regret his actions, didn’t you? Is this a proper punishment? Maybe... Maybe if you weren’t also being punished by the sight of your prince’s shamefully pink cheeks, sweat stains, and uncomfortable fidgeting. His discomfort is _painful_ for you!  He's dead. You're dead. Your ancestors are briefly resurrected so that they can die again. Then the high notes are belted out and you just can't take it anymore. You can't allow him to suffer alone. So, logically, you add to the train wreck that is this bastardization of a classic song. 

Purposefully off-key with sweeping and overly dramatic arm movements as if you're performing on stage for an audience, you leap up from your chair and make your way around your desk to Noct. You extend your hand to him gallantly. A grin spreads across his face at your theatrics.  "I can't _liiiiiiiiiiiiiiive_ if livin' is without you! I can't _giiiiiiiiiiiiiiive_ , I can't give anymore!"  The phone is placed on your desk, the prince's hand is held to your passion-filled face, and the two of you belt out the chorus and ad lib the rest of the song. The repeat button is hit a couple of times just to chase the shame away for good, the noises coming from your room sounding like dying cats. 

You two are so damn dramatic over the eating of a berry tart that honestly wasn't even all that great to begin with. Noct gets a (karma) stomach ache later that day from too much sugar. But while the contents of his stomach are emptied, at least he still has his favorite mage and Air Supply.

* * *

**Prompto Route**

He’s shameless in love.  It works out to his benefit on some occasions. But recently? His love of PDA has been annoying you. It’s not that you  _don’t_ appreciate the random hugs (though you  _do_ squint whenever he grabs your ass), the kisses, or the hand holding, but there’s a problem there. While you may enjoy the fact that he treats you like you’re a regular person, you  _aren’t_ a regular person.

There’s a little institution by the name of the Spire of Duscae that has you in its sights -- has had your  _entire family_ in its sights for generations. And the lovers of Iovitas tend to go missing if they don’t have a lot of weight behind their name. The cold hard fact is that to the Spire, Prompto Argentum is a nobody. He’s a person of no consequence -- the easiest kind to make disappear.  It’s an ancient tactic to prevent coupling and the bearing of Iovita offspring. The emotional toll on Iovitas is a happy little bonus for the Spire. Even friends have been known to simply vanish without a trace and turn up dead weeks later. Isolation is another goal.

So your fear is made manifest in one ugly outburst that leaves Prompto in tears when you storm off.  “I’ve asked you time and time again  _not_ to do this,” you’d lambasted him, nostrils flaring in your rage. There was only an arm’s length between you two as you pushed him away, lips still buzzing from that sudden kiss in a lonely corridor of the Citadel. “Do you think I’m joking? Do you even listen to me when I speak? Or is it just that you don’t respect  _me_?”

Bottom lip quivered, blue eyes grew teary. “(y/n), I’m sor-”  


“Those were rhetorical. Don’t speak to me. Not right now, Prompto.”  Then you’d turned on your heel and left him there. All the while, your eyes were everywhere. The doors to nearby rooms were opened and closed, adjacent corridors checked and double-checked. By the time you got back to your bedroom, your heart was in your throat and the adrenaline had drained every last ounce of strength from you.

A day passes with no calls, no texts, and no visits.

You sit in your chambers, cutting mint and brooding. But you won’t apologize. Yes, you were harsh. However, you’ve asked him to refrain from PDA time and time again. And time and time again, his hand finds yours and you yank it free just as a magister rounds the corner and passes you two in the hall. The holding of a hand is not worth his life. Sometimes, you think you’d both be better off if you broke up. Because clearly, you two expect different things in a romantic relationship. Both of you enjoy the long talks, just being in each other’s company. But Prom likes to pull you onto his lap, hug you and run his hands up under your shirt, and all manner of blatant displays of romantic affection. That’s all good and well for you...  _in the bedroom_.

And then he’s smuggled out by way of some hidden passage if the hallway isn’t clear. And sometimes you think the subterfuge makes him feel like you’re ashamed of him even though you’ve explicitly told him of the risks involved in being close to you. Of course, you never said he was at such high risk because the Spire thinks he’s a nobody. You have  _some_ tact. Gods, and sometimes even  _you_ are careless. The bedroom door will remain unlocked, you’ll unthinkingly hold his hand a moment in public, or something else that’s totally thoughtless. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t fully comprehend the gravity of the situation? Because  _you_ don’t exactly lead by a very good example?

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

You sigh, long and tortured and so damn dramatic. Can’t a mage brood in peace? The knife is put down and you begin to place the mint on a rack for you to string up and dry later. Head turns and you snap over your shoulder, voice clear as a bell to the poor soul on the other side of the door, “Enter.”

There’s a grating noise as the door is pushed open and closed. Then you hear a definite  _click!_ of a lock. Nobody locks your door but you. Oh, and Uncle Reggie that one time where he needed to upbraid you over Noct crashing the Regalia on your watch. With this in mind, you have magic pooling in your palm just as music begins to softly play. Perplexed, you whip around to find Prompto Argentum standing in the middle of your room, holding a stereo over his hea- Wait. What? Hand slaps over your mouth -- all magic gone, dashed away with your tension. Your fondness for film and pop culture is what inspires his apology. He’s wearing a long coat even though it’s summer. There are many,  _many_ sweat stains.

When he starts to sing along with Peter Gabriel, you burst out into laughter. “No! Stop!  _Please_!” You beg, hunched over with your hand on your stomach. “Is this an apology or a punishment?”

Freckled cheeks turn pink and he tries to hide a goofy grin with a scowl. “Hey! This was supposed to be a heartfelt apology! And I  _will_ always come back to you, so...” The stereo is turned off and placed on the floor. “I couldn’t stand outside your bedroom window since it’s so high up and, y’know, people might see.”

Just like that the levity is gone. The two of you are reminded of the rather one-sided argument and the events leading up to it. Fingers drum on the alchemy table before you gesture toward your bed for the blond to sit. He does so without a second thought, blue eyes downcast. The moment you settle down onto the bed, he speaks. “I’m sorry about before. Kissing you like that...” he rubs the back of his neck which has grown pink, “was really stupid. Not that I’m making any excuses or anything, but you’re really cute when you talk about stuff you’re passionate about.”

“So,  _ancient runes_ prompted a spontaneous kiss?” You tease, watching as his blush deepens.

“Well, when you say it like  _that_...” Prompto leans back and sighs. Still, his eyes remain looking down, pale lashes mostly obscuring them from view. “I always listen to you and I know this business with the Spire isn’t a joke, (y/n). I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”

“That’s right. It’s  _not_ a joke.” You frown. In fact, it scares you to death. And that fear? Coupled with his gentle nature? It further strengthens your resolve to protect him. And you will. Grabbing his hand, you bring it to your lips and coo, “In all seriousness, let’s not have a repeat. Hm? If you can abstain from PDA, I’ll make it worth your while when we get away from prying eyes and make it to my lovely quarters.”

“Yeah, agreed. I can-” Blue eyes are suddenly glued to your face. “Wait. What?”

“Turn the stereo back on,” you order, glossing over his question and ignoring how sweaty his hand has suddenly become. You stand and tug him up after you, hand on his waist, ready to dance and sweep the blond off of his feet.  A few magisters pass by your door. Eyebrows rise and faces are pulled at the sound of two dorks who are either tone-deaf or pretending to be. Laughter rings through the air, not stifled.

* * *

**Ignis Route**

Despite being such kindred spirits, it’s  _not_ rare for you two to argue. It just seems like it is because you two rarely do it in public. Appearances and all that. Such a funny mentality coming from two teens. Well, “teens” and “kids” have always been used loosely in reference to Ignis Scientia and (y/n) Iovita. Sometimes people think the two of you came into existence as mature adults. Except for right now.

Your best friend getting into a bit of a squabble with your secret boyfriend? It never fails to escalate into a squabble with  _you_. Whenever Iggy has words with Noctis, he feels a headache coming on. And that headache has a name: (y/n) Iovita. Sure enough, like clockwork, the second he disengages from Noct, it’s like you’re waiting around the corner to jump him.

But today? Today Iggy isn’t having it. It’s like you and Noct take pleasure in knocking him around like a ping-pong ball; taking turns having a go at him and testing his patience, always making him the bad guy when he’s just trying to do his job. He’s tired. So, so tired. And for once he’d like for you to have his back. But your arms are crossed and that tells him all he needs to know.  Head tilts and you snap, “That wasn’t very nice of you, Iggs. So he didn’t study for  _one_ test? Did you stop and ask  _why_? And it’s not like one test will completely tank his av-”

“It’s  _my_ job to care for him, (y/n),  _not_ yours,” the older boy snaps back, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose despite how they’re already sitting pretty -- it’s a nervous tic, one that tells you he’s reached his limit. “If I’d wanted your opinion on the matter, I would have asked for it. However,  _you’re_ his  _arcane advisor_.”

He might as well have slapped you.  The derision laid onto that title like a thick layer of frosting on the world’s most rotten cake? That does it. Because it’s never been a secret that your title is empty -- a thing fashioned by the Spire to claw their way to power by sucking onto the kingdom’s fat underbelly like a parasite, putting a  Spire-trained mage by the king’s side. You turn on your heel and walk away.

It’s one of your major insecurities: Your place by Noctis’ side. Something that was handed to you as easily as it can be yanked away, something that puts you on rocky footing with the prince whenever it becomes salient. Because you know you overstep your boundaries at times. You try to make yourself more important than that stupid title allows you to be.  Emerald eyes watch you go, body tense and shoulders squared. When you finally round the corner of the corridor, he leans against the wall, tilts his head back, and sighs. Glasses are removed so fingers can massage the bridge of his nose. Well, that couldn’t have possibly gone any worse. He might as well have spat, “Know your place,” for that self-righteous tone of his.

Yet the usual routine is maintained as if nothing ever happened. The two of you go to the movies that very same night. You sneak him some Ebony like nothing is amiss, respond in kind to his commentary on the film though you’re lacking a bit with that acidic wit he loves so much. And when he reaches for your hand, you pull away, face stony and eyes sharp. Right. You’ve never been one to just let bygones be, especially not when someone has royally screwed up like he has. Being frustrated and tired wasn’t a good enough excuse to lose his temper. Certainly, it’s not good enough to attempt to dodge making an apology  _even if_ he feels a bit vindicated on the matter. The theater goes dark a moment before warm orange lights turn on.

The place is empty, the average moviegoer having left during the end credits since this wasn’t some Marvel film you were all sitting through. Ignis watches as you gather your trash and stuff the evidence of your consumed contraband into the sleeves of your sweater. Since he tried to grab your hand, you’ve grown cold and detached. “Let’s go,” you murmur, standing and heading down the aisle, stepping over discarded popcorn and toppled cups of soda.

Okay, first of all? How dare he? That little hand-holding attempt felt like he spat in your face to complement the firm slap he gave you earlier in the day. You’ve been waiting  _all day_ for his apology. Phone was checked obsessively and when he darkened your doorway you thought he was finally going to apologize... but he asked you to the movies instead. You should’ve denied him to better get your point across.

Just a glance at your back and Iggy knows you’re a ball of fury simmering under a dusky lavender cardigan. He needs to tread carefully lest he wants to face the full force of your wrath. And Ignis Scientia isn’t a glutton for  _that_ particular brand of punishment. In truth, he’s having a bit of trouble trying to apologize.  Because this? This is actually the first substantive argument you two have ever had. Everything else was petty and meaningless in the long-run: “One serving of Doritos or two? You can’t sit idly by and let the Crown Prince get sick off junk food.” Done and done. Today’s argument could’ve gone exactly the same way as all the other ones.

Except Ignis stomped on that hurt of yours.

And he’s not stupid. Far from it, of course. He knows that that’s an insecurity of yours. It’s what made it hurt even more. It would’ve been easier for you to brush it off with a haughty scoff if he hadn’t known -- if he’d been literally anyone else. So when you sit down in the car, you’re having a hard time breathing. Chest hurts from bottling up anger and pain. Face turns away to look out of the window when he settles into the driver’s seat. Green eyes watch you closely, look down to your hands which you’ve fisted on your lap. The car starts up and the radio is turned on. Ignis is still struggling to find the right words to apologize for crossing the line when the song begins playing softly.

It’s a familiar song to him, something that’s played every now and then when he’s waited on Noct to tell his blond best friend goodbye and get in the car. It perfectly describes what he’s feeling now and Ignis has never had an ounce of shame around you yet his cheeks flush delicately at the sound of his own low singing voice.

“ _I'm sorry_  
_Two words I always think_  
_After you're gone_  
_When I realize I was acting all wrong_

 _So selfish_  
_Two words that could describe Oh actions of mine_  
_When patience is in short supply_ ”

Your face remains turned away, a tear is hastily wiped away. Ignis looks at you once the car has stopped at a red light. He reaches his hand out for yours and waits. Eyes glance down at that hopeful gesture. You smile and place your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. Ignis brings your hand up and presses a gentle kiss to it before he continues to sing to you, rubbing soft circles against the back of your hand.

* * *

**Gladiolus Route**

“ _I’ve got something to say. If you wanna listen to me, come find me in the gym._ ”

Those two sentences are stared at for centuries, your expression unimpressed and a little annoyed. He must be serious considering he didn’t hit you with a damn eggplant emoji. Sprawled out on your bed with thick tomes containing translations for ancient runes and diagrams for summoning circles surrounding you, you put your phone face-down and go back to making study guides.

Arguing with Gladiolus just feels so different now that you two are “dating.” Before, you could easily forget any transgressions and “punching it out” was a viable option (though you always got your ass handed to you on a silver platter). But now? Eyes stray to the phone and you sigh. Why does romantic affection have to make everything so damn complicated?

Warm orange light from the setting sun filters in through the sliver of space between your blackout curtains. Wisps of bluish-gray smoke from the incense you lit fills the room and dances in the sunlight. Phone is checked again. You left him on read. It’s the least you can do for how he behaved earlier. Gladiolus needs to learn once and for all that you aren’t a mage to be messed with...  Except he  _doesn’t_ think you’re a mage to be messed with. That was the crux of your argument. Gladiolus knows your limits perhaps better than you do, mostly because you have the bad habit of  _ignoring_ your limits. Another bad habit of yours is throwing your weight around the second someone slights or attempts to slight you.

This latest valiant act of yours ended with you getting punched in the nose. Blood poured down the back of your throat and you decked your would-be mugger before allowing yourself to gag. You’d abstained from magic, wanting to test your mettle in hand-to-hand combat. Though you were proud of your badass punch, nobody was amused, least of all Gladiolus.  Oh, the wonderful tongue-lashing you received. Perhaps he should’ve dialed it back? You’d just got the third degree from Uncle Reggie, after all. But the sight of you with the front of your shirt splattered with red and that stupid, self-satisfied grin on your face as if you hadn’t been hurt...? He’d lost his temper and then you had a bruised ego  _as well as_ a bruised face.

Groans that you swear come straight from your soul leave you as you bury your face into your bed . Damn you and your easily bruised ego and damn Gladiolus for being so thoughtless and careless! Though you don’t know it, he gets lambasted by Iris for upsetting you. She’s always going to be in the middle of your relationship, considering she likes you so much.  The little Amicitia is the one who gives Gladio the idea for his great apology. He’d listened, feeling slightly jealous, as she went on and on  _and on_ about the  _one_ time you took her to karaoke. She’d gushed about it for  _days_. Gladio swore you’d given her the world with how she floated on air and laughed at the memory.

“(y/n) is so  _lame_!” Iris had said affectionately.

Well, he hopes you’ll react to his singing the way his sister reacted to yours. As he paces back and forth in the empty gym, he starts to fear that he won’t even get a chance to embarrass himself for your viewing pleasure. It’s been a solid hour since he texted you and you’ve left him on read, you petty little mage. The brunet is beginning to sweat in the properly air-conditioned room. Then he hears a gentle clearing of a throat, such an arrogant sound, and he turns around to find you standing in the gym’s doorway. That lavender cardigan is hugged close to your body. Eyes are hooded and lips are pursed. Wow. You still look pretty damn pissed. Gladio supposes he really shouldn’t have gone off like that...

Surveying your cold expression closely, amber eyes flickering from your narrowed eyes to your downturned lips, the older Amicitia confidently informs you, “I got somewhere I wanna take ya.”  Honestly, it’s bravado. Gladiolus feels like if he  _asks_ you to come along with him, you’ll tell him to stuff it and leave. There’s still the option for you not to come at all, of course, but any show of weakness before the young Iovita mage is sure to land him in hot water. Well,  _hotter_ water than he’s already in for reprimanding you like you were a child.

A long inhale of breath is taken. It’s condescending to the extreme and has you tasting crisp air-freshener and stale sweat in the back of your throat. Nostrils flare at that but you don’t comment. Instead, you simper, simply oozing contempt, “Oh, is that right? And where, pray tell, do you expect to take my fragile self? Our options on entertainment are limited, you see, for my bones are made of glass and my skin is but the thinnest of paper.”

Gladio sticks his tongue into his cheek and looks down at the floor. Dark eyelashes flutter as he stares at the floor like it’ll better help him regain his composure. ‘Cause what you said is funny, yeah, but he’s  _kinda_ afraid to laugh since he doesn’t want you to think he’s undermining you again. The tense silence lasts a painful age. Gladiolus is pretty sure he’s about to puncture a hole in his cheek.  Then you decide to put him out of his misery by rolling those intense eyes of yours and turning on your heel with a dreary, “C’mon. You can drive my moped if this is  _such_ a big secret.”

The sound of his footfalls behind you tells you that the brunet is on your heels. One hand digs in the pocket of your pants while the other shoots Noct a text that you’re going to miss the late-night gaming session he and Prom had planned. You get a text back telling you that you’re lame just as you toss Choco Jr.’s keys to Gladiolus. Eyes narrow. Just as you’ve typed out, “ _Listen you little shit,_ ” Gladiolus is shooting you a somewhat impatient look. You’ll have to scold Noct another day. Sitting on the moped behind Gladio, your hands grip the seat so that you don’t have to wrap your arms around him. That? That actually makes him pout a bit. Are you being petty? Yeah. Of course.

The sky is dark but the city is always bright. Street lights quickly give way to neon lights as the scooter  coasts down the road. Buildings are huddled together, some of them with busted-out windows and graffiti defacing the walls. As a relatively sheltered mage, your hackles start to rise. Gladiolus would never lead you to danger, obviously, but you’re still on high-alert.

A thick, acrid stench suddenly fills your nose just as the scooter comes to a somewhat jerky stop. With apparent displeasure, you bring your hand up over your nose and hop off of your moped. In an effort to be endearing, Gladio removes your helmet for you -- an affectionate gesture that you choose to coldly ignore so that you can instead gripe, “This dump smells like a drunk’s vomit and I  _swear_ , Gladiolus, if my scooter gets jacked-”

“Don’t worry,” Gladio sighs, taking you by the hand and leading you into a rundown brick building with music notes adorning the façade in neon. The words “food,” “drink,” and “karaoke” are also placed haphazardly in the boxy little windows in similar neon lights. Fried food is all you can smell upon entering the establishment. It somehow overpowers that alcoholic stink from outside. It’s a bit musky and spicy while also managing to be stale.

The interior is dimly lit and your eyes strain to make anything out. There’s a lounge area and immediately beyond the lounge is an eerie hallway with many doors. On the right-hand side of the lounge are metal double-doors and a serving window. You can spy maybe three or four cooks in the kitchen -- seemingly the only well-lit part of the building. A burger is placed on a tray alongside five glasses of beer and a waiter quickly bustles away with it down the hall. Gladio goes over to a hostess, they exchange a few words, and then you’re immediately being bustled down that creepy hall as well. Before you know it, you find yourself in a small room that’s crowded with a TV, a glass table, and a black pleather couch.

Well, it seems this room is well-lit as we- Never mind. Gladiolus immediately dims the lights the second the door shuts behind you two. “Are you trying to ruin my eyesight?” You ask, tone bland. The pleather is a bit sticky as if someone just recently wiped it down with a damp rag without enough cleaner. But you sink into it all the same and turn your poor eyes onto the TV screen.

A kitschy menu screen flashes in blue and purple with white text. A seemingly endless list of available songs continuously scrolls on-screen overlaying a hot-pink silhouette of what appears to be someone singing their heart out. “You gonna sing like that for me?” Gladio jokes with a teasing grin, settling down on the couch next to you. He makes sure his knee is touching yours.

Eyes narrow at him. “Listen, nerd,  _you’re_ the one who has some making up to do,” you find yourself teasing right back. What can you say? The prospect of godsawful karaoke almost has your boyfriend’s past transgression fading from memory. The only way he can make it up to you is by singing you a passion-filled song with his very heart and soul. You tell him exactly that.

Gladiolus Amicitia certainly wears a blush well... and then, so do you. Because you get that passion-filled serenade you jokingly ask for. You’re expecting something foolish from him, like maybe reenacting the performance you gave Iris, since she  _obviously_ told her big bro all about it for him to wind up taking you here. So, you’re totally expecting him to sing “Toxic” like you did.

Totally expecting him to whip around dramatically and say, “It’s Britney, bitch,” like you did to your young best friend, sending her into a fit of giggles and nearly making her choke to death on her water. But that’s not what you get. Oh, no. What you get is Gladio turning on the couch so he can see the screen and look at you. What you get is Roy Orbison’s “Crying.” Instead of laughing at Gladiolus for being a dork, your throat tightens a bit and your nose burns. 

 _“I love you even more_  
_Than I did before_  
_But, darling, what can I do?_  
  
_For you don't love me_  
_And I'll always be crying over you_  
_Crying over you_ ”

Amber eyes stare into yours. Heat rushes into your cheeks and you murmur, eyes downcast, “Gosh, I didn’t break up with you. Six, you’re so dramatic.” At the sound of his huff of a laugh, you return your gaze to his sincere one. With a grin, you throw your arms around him and laugh into his neck, “You’re  _such_ a dork!”

Strong arms wrap around you. “I’m sorry about before...” The way he trails off has your eyes narrowing suspiciously. Those arms tighten around you a bit more. A deep, rumbling chuckle reverberates into your chest and your eyes are already rolling into the back of your head as Gladio drawls, “ _So_ , I’ve heard that when you sing karaoke, you go by another name.”

“Shut up!"


	6. Prompto: Actors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Please can you do an AUish ficlet set during chapter 7 of Run before the angst when reader thinks Prompto is mad for them flirting with Cindy and decides for themself that the only way to get back into his good graces is to wing man the shit outta him. Details can be up to you I just luve me some misunderstandings and awkwardness galore_
> 
> I didn’t really know what the anon meant by AU-ish. Like... The reader in that timeline being a wingman? Or? So, this is set in the AU where y’all grew up in the Citadel and are a bit bolder. It doesn’t really change much aside from where y’all get your “advice” from and how casual/informal you are when speaking to everyone.
> 
> This is separate from "Endlessly". So, if you read that then erase it from your mind! Y’all never awkwardly demanded Prompto hang out with you, it never turned into a four-year relationship, none of that happened. This fic assumes that the relationship stayed at unsatisfying teasing and mutual pining.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, Mega Angst, Mega Misunderstandings, OOC Galore, Two Dorks in Love, Mutual Pining, Cindy and Takka are Innocent Bystanders, Lots of Yelling, Sudden Ending, Intense Tense Flippage, Hella Bad Writing

**Actors **

He can never tell if you’re being sincere or not even though you’ve flirted for years.  At least, he _thinks_ you two have.  Always with those glittering eyes and slow smiles. But then you go and point those weapons at someone else and he always, without fail, thinks that that person is a great match for you -- better than _him_. He can know nothing about them other than that they got that dazzling smile out of you and he knocks himself down. 

But he tries to hide it. For everyone’s sake. Even when his feelings are hurt, even when he wants to brood, he’s highly conscientious of your feelings. Prompto Argentum is in the awkward position of having somehow befriended Noctis’ standoffish arcane advisor and he doesn’t want to do or say anything to alienate you or lose you.  So, he internalizes it and lets it fester. Noct has no such illusions about you, however. 

The prince knows that you have a splendid acting talent and that your _awkwardness_ is your charm. You don’t have _pure_ charm -- it’s social ineptitude in a disarming lavender cardigan. The unassuming fall for it and call you haughty or confident. But Noctis knows you. It’s all about deflection; hiding the faults and the flaws from those who would use them against you.  And he’s told his blond friend exactly that about a million times -- not that you’re the way you are for survival, but that you aren’t being _malicious_ toward him. The prince insists that you genuinely like the sharpshooter. Still, where you lack social skill Prompto lacks self-confidence. He’s energy and enthusiasm, wide grins to hide teary eyes and hurt feelings. 

You have each other fooled. You’re both _great_ actors. 

Prompto is a flirt, too. But when he flirts, it’s for affection. And he does it _so often_. Blinking those baby blues at someone, smiling so wide that his eyes crinkle. And you watch. And you assess. And you tell yourself that when he gives _you_ those heart-racing smiles it means as much to him as it does when it’s directed toward all those people who _aren’t you_.  When you flirt, it’s like battle. Your sneaky little eyes look for cracks in an opponent’s armor; stroking egos for favors, fluffing feathers for information, paying lip service to avoid ire. He gets the lines so easily blurred when he’s with you. Are you flirting because you like him? Or do you want something from him? 

All these years and he still can’t figure it out. All these years and you still think it’s a game. 

And having teased Prompto for years and years, never acting on it, never letting him near, he sometimes thinks you might be a player. Because you bat those long lashes at him, smile wide... and then you swagger on over to Cindy Aurum and bat those lashes at _her_ , shoot _her_ that dazzling smile that’s crafted for flawless manipulation.  She reciprocates -- all genial for a smile that was smirking lips and a sensual glint of teeth. A laugh rings through the air, cheeks flush. Well, shit. You’ve never done that to _him_. Never shot him that “come hither” look with your hip jutted out and your bare arms crossed and on display (one of your best assets, given that weighty staff of yours). 

An invisible dagger slides under his ribs and up into his heart. You unwittingly twist it with a grin. 

“Check out this decal!” You crow, leaning next to him against the Regalia and shoving the Hammerhead decal under his nose. “Cindy said it’d look cool on my helmet. Got it for free. Do you think it’ll-” He’s giving you a cool look, almost expressionless. It chills your blood. Brow furrows and you query lightly, “Um... You okay?” 

He snaps out of it and plasters on that award-winning smile. “Yeah, I’m great! Just gonna... go use the restroom!” 

Except he doesn’t.  You watch, brooding, as he makes a beeline for Noctis who is exiting the gas station convenience store with a slushie in hand. The prince immediately notices that something is wrong with his best friend. The two have their heads together. After a moment, you get a flash of those disapproving, steely blue eyes and Noct takes his pal into Takka’s Pit Stop. Son of a bitch. What did you do _now_? 

You look around for help, practically the embodiment of “I need an adult!” And an adult you see. Ignis is leaning against the façade of the convenience store, flipping through something on his phone (probably the news). You can only hope that he was alert when you made whatever faux pas that has Prompto so icy.  Ignis Scientia practically has a sixth sense for you; he knows when you’re near without needing to see or hear you. He’ll joke that it’s your impish nature that triggers it, like how animals can sense a storm coming. So before you can even open your mouth to greet him and without even glancing up, the bespectacled man drawls, “What is it now, (y/n)?” 

Blinking your eyes at him, all pitiful, you sigh, “Ignis, you’ve worked as my social buffer for years. Can you tell me what I did wrong?” 

Still not looking up, he continues to browse the web, albeit with a bit of a smirk now. “I’m afraid you’ll have to clarify, (y/n). There’s a list.” 

“ _Haha_...” you mock, “that’s really cute. I’m talking about with Prompto, Iggs.” 

“Well, _that’s_ not on the list.” Now the phone is put away and you have your childhood friend’s full attention. “I wasn’t paying much mind to your interactions aside from him and Noctis going to the diner.” 

“Thanks a lot, Eggs,” you grumble, leaning against the store beside him. Between your fingers, you fool around with the decal, nearly taking the backing off by accident. 

Ignis sighs long and low. It’s the sigh of a man who has given up all hope. “Would you _please_ stop vacillating between Iggs and Eggs? I’ve only asked this for nearly half a decade.” 

You snort, mood lifting just a bit at your friend’s plight. “Just say ‘five years’ like the rest of us. I know it doesn’t carry as much weight as ‘half a decade’ but it wouldn’t kill you to tone down the drama. Besides, I think the name is cute! You’re the Master Chef so you get a food nickname. That’s how it works.” 

“I’d prefer not to be called an egg.” 

“You can keep asking, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop, Eggy.” 

“You callin’ Iggy ‘Eggy’ again?” Asks Gladio, King of Bad Nicknames, emerging from the store with a thin plastic bag full of cup noodles and Ebony. At your side-eye, he turns the bag _just so_ to show you that he bought candy just for you. 

“When I say it fast enough, you can hardly hear the difference.” You cut your eyes from the bags to the Shield. “By the way... can you help me out, Gladio?” 

“Maybe. What’s up?”  


“What’s going on with Prompto?” 

Dark eyebrows rise up and up, nearly taking a trip to the moon. In truth, he’s wondered when you’d ask this. At first, Gladio actually thought you were wise to the blond’s crush but then Ignis pointed out that despite how you put up a front you’re spectacularly dense with regard to Prompto’s feelings.  “ _Oh_. You want me to puzzle that one out for ya? Why don’t you ask Iggy?” He deflects like an uncomfortable parent not wanting to give their kid “the talk.” The Shield has  always found your “romantic” naïveté rather bizarre given that you’re a silver-tongued devil. Then again... 75% of your time was spent with middle-aged men and women. And your sneakiness hardly equates to social prowess.  You didn’t get the nickname “Hermit Mage” for nothing.  


“I did. He wasn’t any help.”  


Ignis stiffly suggests, “Why don’t you ask Prompto himself or Noctis?” 

“Because Prompto is...” you trail off uncomfortably, stomach knotting, before hastily explaining, “that’s not an option. Noct? Well, he’s best friends with me and Prom both so I don’t want to put him in an awkward spot. And I asked _you_ , Ignis, because you’re my second best friend.” 

“Second best?” Ignis’ tone is clipped, lips pursed. “You never cease to flatter me, (y/n).” 

“Heh, that’s-” Gladio pauses and scowls. “Wait a minute. Are you saying I’m your _third_ best friend, Magey?” 

“Pff! No.” You smirk. “Whoever said you even made the top five, Gladiolus?” 

The Shield crosses his arms, which is rather difficult given the bags. “Yeah, right. You don’t even _have_ five friends. And before you say anything, His Majesty and your mother don’t count. Neither do any of your instructors nor the staff at the Citadel and the Spire.” 

Well, that eliminates like thirty people in one fell swoop. 

“Lady Iris? Lady Lunafreya?” Fingers tick off the names. Unfortunately for you, you run out of names real fast. “I think Lady Lunafreya’s brother winked at me once or he had something in his eye...” you flounder, “so, _possibly_ Lord Ravus?” 

“It seems to be the trend that anyone who _looks at you_ is your friend,” Ignis chuckles not unkindly, always amused by your antics. 

“Cin- Oh!” A dramatic gasp rips out of you and you raise up the Hammerhead decal. You wave it at the others like it means something, but they have no idea what you’re on about. “Cindy! _That’s_ what it is!” 

“That’s what what is?” Gladio asks, shooting Iggy a bewildered look. 

“Prompto’s mad at me for _flirting with Cindy_! He totally has a crush on her!” 

“Um,” Gladiolus exchanges a glance with Ignis who merely sighs and shakes his head, “yeah... _That’s_ why. Congrats. You figured it out.” 

“I know how to make this right.” You nod your head to yourself, totally sure. “I saw it in a movie once.” 

“If it was anything from a romantic comedy, (y/n), that’s not-” 

“I’ve got this, Iggs. Just let me work my magic.”  And you totally ignore their groan at your lame joke. Rather, you don’t hear it because you’re already walking toward the garage. It’s funny. The fact that you’re strutting so confidently toward the garage to ask Cindy out on Prompto’s behalf is rather humorous. Because if you were asking her out for _yourself_? You probably would’ve thrown up by now.  But with the adorable blond in mind, it’s like you’re wearing armor. Oozing confidence and charm, you swagger on into the garage and call out, “Hey, Cindy!” 

Olive eyes flicker over you and the mechanic hastily backs off from the car she was working on to greet you. Cheeks flush a bit under oil stains. “Two visits in one day? Is there somethin’ goin’ on?” 

“You could say that,” you hum playfully before going in for the kill. “Did you see my blond friend? Prompto?” 

Her eyebrows knit together, not quite picking up what you’re putting down. You’re here to talk about _him_? “Sure did. Why?” 

When you clasp your hands behind your back with one shoulder raised and your head cocked, Cindy damns you. “What would you say to having lunch with him on your break? Wait. You _do_ get a lunch break, right?” 

“I do. And...” the blonde mechanic side-eyes you, “you want me to have lunch with _him_? Why?” 

“I think he likes you.” 

“ _He_ likes me?” When you nod, totally missing the inflection in her voice, she smiles and sighs, “All right. Lunch won’t hurt nothin’.” 

“Thanks so much! I swear you won’t regret it! He’s incredibly charming, sweet, and considerate. Plus, he’s very funny and dependable. Prompto is quite a catch.” You’re blissfully unaware of how you just sang his praises like the captain of his fan club. But it’s totally not lost on Cindy Aurum who bites her lip. 

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m lookin’ forward to it.”  


“Great! I’ll tell him right now!”  


After you leave, Cindy shakes her head and murmurs to herself, “ _Wow_.” 

Noctis sees you coming from the garage like a mage on a mission. That gleam in your eye that he can spot from a mile away alerts him of bad things to come. He’s busy watching you from the diner’s window that he doesn’t hear the blond sitting across from him mumble, “I dunno, man. I think... I think it’s about time I just give up. It’s starting to be too painful to-” 

“What’s up, dorks?” You chirp as you burst into the diner. Then you quickly correct yourself, “Not you, Takka. Sorry about that.” 

“Hey there, (y/n),” Takka greets with an amiable smile before going back to wiping down a table. 

“Sweetest Prompto,” you simper, sauntering over toward the guys’ table, “after I tell you what I’ve done, you’ll be singing my praises. Hell, I’d like to request that you name your firstborn after me.” 

He sighs, expression already so exhausted even though the conversation has just begun, “What did you do?” 

“I got you a date with Cindy! Well, not really a date but it’s lunch so that’s close enough. The rest will follow naturally.” 

“You-You _what_?” 

“I’ll just be leaving,” Noct murmurs uncomfortably but he doesn’t leave without stealthily jabbing his elbow into your back as he passes. You barely flinch at the impact, already used to these shenanigans with the prince. 

You watch Noct go before sitting in the booth across from Prompto. “Got _you_ lunch with Cindy, Prom. Her break is in like... half an hour so you have some time to take a shower in the caravan and-” 

“Can we talk?” Prompto interrupts, blue eyes hard and cheeks slowly turning red. 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” 

There’s a tremulous edge to his voice that he struggles to stifle. “Why did you do that? I thought you were flirting with her and now you set _me_ up with her?” 

Eyes roll dramatically. “What’s the big deal? It was just flirtation.” 

“That’s something I can never understand with you. _Just_ flirtation?” His cheeks are scarlet. “You’re always so careless with people’s feelings. Cindy probably really likes you and you probably hurt her by shoving her at me. Why would you flirt with her if you didn’t like her? Don’t you think you were leading her on?”  His voice has been steadily increasing in volume as he says this but you doubt he’s even noticed. The blond’s posture is rigid like he’s about to get up and run. Takka retreats to the back room after proclaiming rather loudly to himself that he needs to take inventory. 

You huff at the reprimand and slouch in the booth. “Six, _chill out_. Flirtation doesn’t mean the same thing for everyone, Prompto. Cindy was fine with it, she knew I was just being friendly. So, don’t go getting offended on _her_ behalf. I saw you making eyes at her and thought I was doing you a favor. Excuse me for looking out for you.” 

The sharpshooter looks like you just spat in his face. His skin goes pale before flushing all over again with indignation. “Looking out for me? I don’t want you to be my wingman. I never asked you to!” 

“All right, then! I got the message: ‘Fuck you very much for the date, (y/n). I’m not interested.’” You sneer, “ _I’ll_ have lunch with her, then. There’s no need for you to flip out over it.” 

“You _just said_ you weren’t interested!” He scoffs. 

“It’s _just lunch_! I don’t know what world you live in, but lunch isn’t a life-long commitment unless you choke on your fries and die!” You spit. Gods, you’re running hot right now. You swear you’re on the verge of breaking out in a heat rash at any second. Confrontation has never been your forte and now you remember why.  This is a nightmare. This is why you don’t talk to people one-on-one. 

Why the hell is human interaction so damn hard? You’d thought you’d read the blond correctly. You’ve known him for years and yet you got it all wrong. You don’t know that it’s your own biases that cloud your judgment -- that make it next to _impossible_ for you to read the blond’s genuine interest in you. Skepticism is your enemy. And you have it in spades.  And Prompto? Well, it’s a nightmare for him, too. Because now he knows you aren’t being cruel. No. It’s worse than that. You aren’t playing with his feelings because you don’t even know that  they’re there -- that they _exist_. After all these years you just tried to set him up on a date. And now he knows: You have absolutely no interest in him. 

And why would you?  You’re _you_.  And he’s... _him_. 

He’s near tears but you can’t look past your own embarrassment to see it. Prompto can barely choke out, “F-Fine! Go have lunch!” 

“I will! And I better not choke because of all your bad energy or by the Six I’ll haunt you for the rest of your days!” You fume, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “Son of a- I can’t storm off _now_ because the date is here! So... _you_ leave!” 

“Fine!” Prompto scrambles to get out of the booth, so ready to bolt from the diner and go... _somewhere_. Anywhere but here, dammit. Someplace where you can’t see him cry, can’t see his shame. He’s just out of the booth when you speak. 

“No, wait!” Hope leaps in his chest. It’s too cruel. Because you follow up with, “ _I’m_ gonna go and get all fancied up so I can have a nice date! So, excuse me while I go shower!” 

He’s livid. “Screw you, (y/n)! I’m taking a damn shower! For _thirty minutes_!” 

“Wha-?” In a heartbeat, you’re leaping out of the booth and chasing him to the door. “Oh, no you don’t! I have a hot date in half an hour and I’m gonna flirt the shit out of her while smelling like a basket of fucking roses!” 

The two of you get stuck in the diner’s doorway a moment before you’re freed and running. You’re racing for the caravan, trying to pull each other away from the door. Elbows dig into ribs, hands claw at shirttails. It’s a struggle to not just ice his feet to the pavement, but you feel like that would be crossing the line.  Prompto is faster than you are by a long shot and before you know it the flimsy bathroom door is slammed in your face and locked. Breath is sucked in through your mouth and exhaled through your nose. Not banging on the door takes all of your self-control. 

Raising your hand, you knock primly and snap, “Prompto! Get the hell out of there!” 

His muffled voice answers swiftly, “No!” 

There’s a squeak of rusted metal followed by the sound of water cascading down on solid plastic. After a moment, you feel a gust of heat seep out from beneath the narrow door. Eyes roll into the back of your head in frustration.  Growling now, you seethe, “That’s _my_ shower! My _date_ shower! Get out this instant!” 

Then you hear something strange. Like... phlegm? Shortened breath? _Sniffling_? Ear presses urgently against the thin door just in time to hear the blond ask miserably, “Are you really going on that date?” 

Fingers trace along the doorframe. The sounds continue, increasing in volume before getting smothered by a shaking hand. It comes and goes in waves. You sigh and point out unhelpfully, “It’s _just_ lunch.” 

“But you just called it a date,” he insists after finding his voice. 

Now you push away from the door and stare at it. How easy would it be for you to kick it in? To pick the lock? Ridiculously easy. Child’s play. But you’d be crossing a line. The urge is dashed away. “I’m not interested in _dating_ Cindy.” 

“Why not?” His voice sounds so small from behind that door. It gets washed out by the shower. You can imagine him sitting on the toilet in that cramped space, cheeks all red with tears and snot running down his face. Suddenly, there’s a clumsy noise. A toilet paper roll being tugged at to wipe away the tears. 

“Prompto, _come on_.” 

He sighs after a long while, sounding closer now, “I’m sorry.” 

“Apologize for elbowing me in the damn ribs, Mr. Daggers-for-Elbows, but don’t apologize for-” You stop yourself with a groan. Now isn’t the time to get worked up. This needs to be fixed. “I’m sorry for forcing Cindy on you. I thought you were interested in her. That was my mistake. Also, I’m sorry for yelling at you in the diner.” 

“I’m sorry for yelling, too...” 

“How badly did you not want me to have lunch with Cindy? _Geez,_ ” you joke in an attempt to be lighthearted. 

“Really badly.” 

You press your ear to the door once more, straining to hear him. “What?” 

He raises his voice. “Really badly. I-I really didn’t want you to have lunch with her or date her or... date _anyone else_.” 

“Hm.” Leaning beside the door, you stare down at your boots. There’s no longer any steam. The water runs cold. “So, you want me to die alone? That’s a comfort. I always knew you were my rival.” 

“Rival? No! I want you to be with _me!_ ” 

It seems like the caravan rings with that declaration. The silence that follows lasts an age to Prompto. His hand rests on the door, the sound of the shower seeming far too loud. He holds his breath, waiting for your response, waiting for you to laugh at him or brush him off. There’s a thud as he rests his forehead against the door. It snaps you out of your trance.  “ _O-Oh_. Well. Shit.”  


Blue eyes wince at your non-answer. “Sor-” 

“Cut it out. That’s... Don’t apologize for that. I- Dammit. This is _so_ stupid,” you groan, face in your hands. 

“Why?” He sounds tense. 

“Because...” Teeth are clenched now. You’re so tense. “I like you, dork. I was just trying to set you up on a date ‘cause I wanted you to be happy and I _thought_ you might be happy with Cindy.” You pause. He’s dead silent. “Will you let me in now?” 

There’s a long pause. “I’m a mess...” 

“Puh- _lease_ , you’re always super cute. And I don’t want you in there crying by yourself.” Then you add as an afterthought, “I highly doubt you’re an ugly crier, Prom.” 

“Even if I am, don’t say anything.”  


Teeth bite your bottom lip, trying not to laugh. “I’m the master of discretion.” 

He chuckles as he opens the door, “No, you really, really aren’t.”  And he’s right. Because the second you see his splotchy face, you’re throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him close, apologizing over and over. He half-heartedly whines, saying things like “I told you so” about his ruined complexion, using it as an excuse to bury his face in your neck. Then you tell him that you two owe Cindy lunch. ‘Cause you do.


	7. Prompto: Wildflower pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _This might be a weird request, but I remember you mentioning that Prompto was interested in the Spire which was why he was Magey's fanboy. What if he actually attended the Spire? Could you write something like that please?_
> 
> So, obviously this is an AU. As you might’ve expected, considering I’m such a gorbage writer, this is a multi-part thing. I’m thinking… five parts? That always feels long enough and I should be able to cut myself off appropriately. This first chapter is just introductory stuff. Next part Prom will be in the Spire. Anyway, without further ado…
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, All About That AU, Mild Angst, Sappy Best Friends, Prompto the Secret Keeper, Noct Doesn’t Particularly Care For This Secret Tho

**01\. Growing Pains**

“This is gonna be hard. Y’know that, right?”

It’s the first thing Noctis says to Prompto after the blond breaks the news and it sends a twinge of anxiety spiking through his gut like electricity -- spiderwebbing outward to numb his fingers and toes. The duo is sat at a remote table in a sleepy café. Coffees are left untouched on the small metal table, Prom’s anxiety being a contagious thing that makes food and drink hurt the prince’s stomach. When Prompto had first introduced the possibility that he might apply to the Spire as part of their community outreach program, Noct didn’t pay it much mind.

 _Lots_  of people apply to and get rejected for the Spire’s History of Magic one-year program that’s meant to build public interest in the niche field of magical study. And they usually only get rejected purely because spots are minimal. Not to knock his best bud, but Noctis didn’t really think his favorite slacker was  _actually_  serious about applying to a program that requires ‘round-the-clock studying; a program that’s so rigorous that most people only apply to it as a way to get their foot in the door to pursue a formal four-year degree at the magical institution.

The program  _is_  the current Arch-Mage’s pet project, after all. It’s been in effect for nearly three decades and has seen hundreds of students into that illustrious college’s halls. Many transfer their hours toward a Spire degree and end up graduating sooner than if they’d applied to a four-year program outright. It’s viewed as a fast-track program and is coveted, with only 18 applicants being accepted each year. However, the people who apply  _typically_  have shown an interest in studying magic well before applying, having some slight affinity for magic themselves.

But Prompto? He has no such affinity and hasn’t lifted a single book that’s been strictly dedicated to magical history, herbalism, runes, enchantments, the different schools of magic, or  _anything_  of the sort. And that’s not a huge secret… The whipped cream on Prompto’s coffee has long since melted and turned into a bizarre sort of oil-slick that rests on the top of his beverage. He grimaces at the sight of it but takes a sip anyway. Smacking his lips, Prom grins and counters, “What? You don’t think I have what it takes?”

Noct shrugs and speaks candidly, “I mean, obviously you  _do_  since you got accepted. I’m just wondering where your interest in the history of magic is coming from. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never really shown a serious interest in magic outside of-” And then suddenly it all makes sense. It’s a name that gets lodged in Prince Noctis’ throat and the abnormal shade of red on Prompto Argentum’s cheeks should be named: “I Just Got Busted.” It’s so damn clear now. When did Prom start looking into the Spire when he never gave it a second thought before?

It’s crystal clear in Noct’s memory: A lecture about the Spire and the Iovita family that was maybe an eighth of the class’ time and yet Prompto made it feel longer, asking Noct all sorts of questions about his mysterious future arcane advisor. Though Prompto’s interest in magical history may be thin at best, his interest in (y/n) Iovita is far more than a passing fancy. It’s something that’s followed him around for about two years now, it’s something that might’ve made him look up the application and write a compelling essay that caught the Arch-Mage’s eye.

“Tell me you didn’t apply just so you could meet (y/n),” Noct orders though he knows there’s no way in hell Prompto can do that without being a liar. His blond pal is as red as a tomato and refuses to make eye contact, instead staring fixedly at his cup of coffee. Feeling a headache coming on, the prince finally takes a drink of his own caffeinated beverage. Though he doesn’t begrudge Prompto pursuing his dreams (though Noct still finds the fact that a stranger is his pal’s “dream” odd) this just doesn’t seem like the best way to go about it.

Okay, so yeah… Prompto Argentum  _did_  get a full-ride scholarship by some act of the gods (more like an act of Arch-Mage Decima suggesting him for a scholarship based on his demographic information, especially since citizens of the Crown City are typically given preferential treatment as a sign of fealty) and Noct feels bad that he’s yet to congratulate his best friend, but a year of what’s basically academic boot-camp hardly seems like it will afford Prompto the sort of “bonding time” with you that he’s probably looking for.

When Prompto doesn’t utter a single peep to confirm or deny Noct’s suspicions, the Crown Prince sighs and points out, “(y/n) graduates in two years, Prompto. Once they’ve completed their training, they’re moving here to the city. You don’t have to go to college off in Duscae for a program that you  _don’t even_ _have any interest in_. And you know better than anyone how much harder it is to study if you don’t care about the subject.”

Honestly, in this little café with his crappy watered-down coffee and his unsupportive best friend staring him down, Prompto is feeling so attacked right now. He’d hoped that after his announcement was met with lukewarm praise from his parents, _Noctis_ would be more enthusiastic. Okay, yeah, it may seem dumb to go to the Spire just because he’s eager to meet his best friend’s future arcane advisor and the future Arch-Mage of the Spire, but it’s not like he won’t gain anything else from the experience.

So what if he doesn’t know anything about magic while his fellow classmates either have magical proficiency, studied magic in high school, are already established scholars of the arcane arts who want to supplement their education with teachings from the  _pinnacle_  of arcane academia, or come from wealthy families who have attended the institution from its inception? Who says that just because he doesn’t fit into any of those groups that he can’t go there to learn? The History of Magic program  _is_  for outreach, after all. It’s for people like  _him_.

Magister Drusa Alomar had told him so when she conducted his admissions interview. Prompto had hurried to clean his room for the teleconference and was so stressed out that he hadn’t realized he’d buttoned up his shirt all wrong until after the fact. Still, the magister had assured him that the Arch-Mage was impressed with his application and was eager to have him join her program and be under her direct tutelage. The interview was merely a formality, she said, and everything about Magister Drusa seemed to smile when she said it.

It’s with this in mind that Prom crosses his arms and huffs, nose in the air, “Who says I don’t care about magic?”

“You did,” Noct replies, quick on the draw. “We had a quiz about it in history and you failed. When I asked what happened, you said you didn’t bother studying because it was boring. But you sure did get all five questions about the Iovitas right.”

Well… That certainly blew up in his face. Flustered, Prompto defaults to angrily chugging his coffee and glaring out of the café’s window. People pass by on the sidewalk, umbrellas ready to be used as dark clouds churn up above. It’s a pretty cold winter morning and the two young men are dressed in overstuffed jackets that make them look like pill-bugs. Although the little shop has its heater blowing at full blast, being seated next to the window brings with it a chill along with the nice view.

Noct can tell that he’s upset his friend. Prompto is a sensitive guy so the brunet  _knows_  his approach was all wrong. He’s just worried. The Spire has a bit of a nasty reputation for putting academic achievement above mental and physical health. Though the college doesn’t actively support such behavior, the magisters who teach at the institution don’t do anything to combat it. Noctis just doesn’t want Prompto to get overwhelmed and ultimately feel like a failure if he can’t keep up. Noct is just feeling overprotective. Plus, going to the Spire means-

“Do you know when you’re leaving?”

Cornflower blue eyes dart to Noct from watching a man struggle with his umbrella as a drizzle begins. “Um. Later this month.” At the flash of dismay on Noctis’ face, Prompto explains, “I have to get settled in since I’ll be living on campus. Trust me, I wish I could commute but it’s just too far.”

“Why’d you take so long to tell me?”

His best friend sounds highly accusatory and Prompto can’t fault Noct for that. He purposefully didn’t say anything for nearly two months because he wasn’t sure how to break the news. Casually and over coffee felt like the best method. And it _is_. But it would’ve been better if “casually and over coffee” was done two months ago and not  _two weeks_  before his move. And even though Prompto reassures Noct that he’ll get holidays off to come back to Insomnia, it won’t feel the same for the prince who has had the impish blond by his side for so long.

Who is he gonna hang out with? Like, the really casual kind of hanging out that he can only do with Prompto? The kind where he can act like a total potato without getting a side-eye or being “encouraged” to do something productive? Who’s gonna pull lame-ass pranks on him or tell him cringey jokes that are physically painful to hear? Who’s he gonna beat at video games? ‘Cause despite him acting like a complete uppity nerd, Specs dominates him in every damn game known to man -- Noct only gets pity-wins.

“Well,” Noct rubs at his nose which is feeling very itchy for no apparent reason, steely blue eyes are trained on his lukewarm coffee and they definitely aren’t getting a bit misty, “congratulations. I’m proud of you.”

And Prompto doesn’t bother hiding his teary eyes or his gloomy grin. “Thanks.”


	8. Prompto: Wildflower pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Prompto enters the Spire and catches a mage’s eye.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Mild Angst, Prompto has Anxiety, Noct Loves His Bro, You’re Not Nearly As Cool As Prom Thinks, Creepy Staring, Classism is Kinda the Spire’s Thing, Foot Meet Mouth, Prompto is Probably Dead, "Love at First Sight" Cliché

**02\. Better Times**

Move-In Day is always exciting for you. Although you know that a snowball has a better chance of surviving in hell than you do of making a new friend, you just like to look. Is that so strange? You enjoy seeing new people and you especially love that awestruck look newbies get on their face when they arrive. Sat on the main floor, you keep a hefty tome up to cover half of your face so you can peer over the top of it. There are cozy sitting areas peppered throughout the main floor leading up to the spiraling staircase that’s seen many an accident.

A few students come back down to sit here and crack open their laptops once they’ve arranged their drafty rooms to their liking. It’s warmer down here, for a certainty. There’s a massive fireplace that’s big enough to cremate bodies in, after all. A few of the staff members wait at attention by the front entrance, ready to guide new arrivals to their room and give them a rundown of where they should go and who they should speak to if they have any questions later. Returning students are merely given a formal greeting and left to their own devices.

For Prompto Argentum, it’s all a very overwhelming experience. Waiting at the location he was told the shuttle would pick him up just a few streets down from his house, he’s a shivering mess. It’s sleeting and Noctis is right by his side. Ignis is parked and waiting just a little ways down the road. Though the prince had insisted on driving the blond to the college, Prompto was adamant on getting the  _full_  Spire student experience, shuttle drive included. So the two young men are left shaking like mad, breath coming in quick puffs of steam as a black truck pulls up, the Spire insignia on its side.

Honestly, a small part of him was hoping the shuttle wouldn’t show up; that he’d be forgotten and he could just bail. These past couple of weeks have flown by and his anxiety has only grown as a result. Though he spent practically every waking moment hanging out at Noct’s apartment, just chilling, he wants more time with his best friend. Is it so terrible to say that he’s going to miss Noctis more than his own family? Prompto feels ill. Gods, he regrets ever applying. What the hell was he thinking?!

“W-Well, here’s my ride,” Prompto grins and nearly splits his chapped lips. His tongue comes out to hurriedly lave over the potential wound. Bad move. Now his lips are really freezing.

Bits of ice cling to the Crown Prince’s eyelashes as he blinks rapidly, umbrella practically frozen in his fist. “Took ‘em long enough.”

“Actually, we got here early,” Prompto chuckles abashedly. At Noct’s nonplussed expression, the blond confesses just as the driver gets out and begins putting his damp bags in the trunk, “I, uh, told you the shuttle would get here half an hour earlier ‘cause I didn’t want to be late.”

“We could’ve waited in the car the whole time!”

“Well! I didn’t wanna miss my ride!”

“Mr. Argentum?” The driver does a double-take at the sight of the red-nosed Crown Prince at the blond’s side. Well, then. Now he thinks he understands how this kid got into the Spire, despite the neighborhood he lives in.

When Noct sees the flash of anxiety on his best friend’s face, the reality of this move fully hitting him, he pats Prompto’s back and says, “Call me when you get there. Send me pictures of your room, too. I wanna feel like I’m there, so make ‘em really good. None of that blurry crap.”

With a panicked grin, Prompto laughs and promises, “I will. Ooh! I’ll do a video chat and give you a tour!”

Just as Prom is about to go, he quickly turns around and gives Noct a tight hug. He squeezes him and almost doesn’t let go. Noct smiles and watches his best friend get into the truck, only slipping a little on the step pad. Once the door is shut, the blond is practically pressed against the window, waving like mad with his breath fogging up the glass. Noct waves right back and keeps on waving for as long as he’s sure Prom can see him. When the truck is out of sight, Noct sighs and begins walking over to the car where Specs awaits.

It’s a blue day in every sense when Prompto gets to the Spire. At first, he’s in awe at the sight of that building that seems to pierce the heavens like a serrated blade. He’s taken aback by the armed guards that patrol the front gate leading up that winding, bumpy road to the Spire. The silence in the car is deafening, the driver not the sociable sort. It’s been a long, silent drive and Prompto will quickly find that  _everyone_  is like that in that old college. Sadly, it won’t take long for loneliness and homesickness to hit him hard.

“Welcome to the Spire of Duscae.”

“Ah… Thank you!” Prompto is blushing like mad. That damn butler got the jump on him even though Prom  _literally saw him_  the second two other workers opened the massive wooden double-doors for him to enter the institution. The place smells of burning wood and something sweet, like baking bread. Wide blue eyes dart around the building, taking in the old stone walls and the imposing portraits of past Arch-Mages. Part of a large staircase is directly above the doorway, winding around and around, going so high up that Prom gets dizzy craning his neck.

The main floor is a massive circular room that’s expertly divided up into a reception area and sitting area with the start of the grand staircase situated at the back. There’s a doorway that leads to the dining hall, another doorway leads to the basement, and a third spills out into an old chapel. Thin windows are placed haphazardly around this floor and that pattern continues throughout the Spire with no rhyme or reason. His starstruck reaction to seeing the inside of the Spire for the first time is gobbled up by one very attentive mage.

Prompto felt that heated gaze on him from practically the moment he entered the Spire. It feels like hot pinpricks along his body, a sensation that isn’t wholly uncomfortable but is certainly disquieting. Those cornflower blue eyes spot the source of that stare almost immediately after he’s finished gawking. Wicked eyes peer at him from over the top of a massive book, the owner of those eyes seated casually on an overstuffed armchair pushed off to the far left of the room. When the stranger lowers the book, revealing more of their face, Prompto stops breathing.

Okay, so, if there’s something to be said of Prompto Argentum, it’s that he’s one of those guys who “falls in love”  _very_ easily. It’s something Noct makes fun of him over on a near daily basis. But today Prompto believes that he’s fallen in love at first sight. And when that stranger gives him an evil grin, those smoldering eyes turning to crescents at his gobsmacked reaction to their attention, he nearly breaks his neck to hastily look away. He’s so red. So  _unnaturally_  red.

He feels very much like a fool, stumbling after the worker who informs him that she’s going to take him to his room after getting his name and ID number from him. She talks a mile a minute and Prompto doesn’t catch more than five words of her lecture, too busy looking at that mage seated away from all the others. Every time the staircase winds to where he can have a view of them, he’s looking over the railing. And they continue to watch, too, smile getting wider and wider until Prom can’t get a proper look at them anymore.

Once he’s in his spacious room that he’s apparently going to be sharing with two other “scholarship students,” (Six, the way that lady said it almost made him feel dirty), Prompto gets to work on making the gray room look like home. All the while, as he tapes posters to the wall beside his bed and places action figures on his narrow windowsill, he thinks back to that strange student. A bit childishly, he wonders if they’d like to be his friend. Phone pulled up and moving around the room to show Noct the space properly, Prompto says as much.

“And I can’t  _wait_  to meet (y/n),” he adds, throwing himself down on his bed. “Well, I’ll let ya go, buddy. Today’s been pretty hectic and I wanna get my books. Classes start  _next week_! Man, this place sure is no joke.”

“Uh-huh,” drawls Noct from the comfort of his dirty apartment, smiling at the sight of his friend who looks tired but content. “Tell me how things go with that mystery mage you’re supposedly _in love_  with.”

“Tch!” Prom’s cheeks are cherry red but he smiles at the thought of that bizarre mage in that oversized sweater. “Yeah. I think I’ll play it real cool. Like… I’ll ask them if they’ve met (y/n).”

“Yeah, you do that.”

“All right, I will.” Prom huffs at the skeptical look on his bro’s face. Those steely blue eyes are hooded in pure disbelief. But Prom  _is_  feeling a little nervous about it. I mean, Noct is usually his wingman! And that mage seemed so sure of themselves, so cool holding his gaze like that. Gosh, just thinking about them is getting him all flustered again. He doesn’t know how he’s going to pull off actually  _talking_ to them like a normal, well-adjusted person without Noct by his side. “I’ll, uh, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

And he does. He’s as smooth as can be, sliding into the spot next to you the next morning at breakfast as you eat alone, nearly making you choke to death on your coffee with that stealth move of his. And you wonder why the heck the cute newbie with the staring issues is asking  _you_  if you know who  _(y/n) Iovita_  is and if you can introduce him to them. And he wonders why the cool mage who was  _totally_  making eyes at him yesterday looks at him like he’s insane before agreeing to introduce him. And he’s even more confused when you hold out your hand.

“Uh, what’s up?”

“I never got your name,” you say, a ghost of a smile on your lips.

His Spire-issue sweater is hugged close to his body. He blushes prettily, pale lashes fluttering as he looks down, all abashed, before he takes your hand in his, giving it a shake and a squeeze. “I’m Prompto. P-Prompto Argentum. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Why, the pleasure is all mine, Prompto.” You shake his hand and let it go before taking a sip of your coffee. The caramel-colored liquid is swirled in your porcelain cup a moment before you look at him from the corner of your eye and smirk. “I’m (y/n) Iovita.”

And then you get up and exit the dining hall for your advanced morning herbalism lecture out back in the greenhouse, leaving Prompto Argentum to sit there with his hand still extended out in front of him like he’s shaking a ghost’s hand; mouth a bit slack, blue eyes devoid of life. Students walk by and give him funny looks before being served by the waitstaff. One server comes up to him and finally snaps him out of his stupor with a question of what he’d like to eat. Oh, gods. He’s so dumb and he wants to die.


	9. Prompto: Wildflower pt.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Prompto makes friends and then gets slapped in the face with Spire nonsense.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, Fluff, One Boring Schedule Comin’ Right Up, Listen Everyone’s Spire Schedule is Boring AF, All About That AU, Prom Gets Burned, Second Hand Shame, Spire Bullshit, Prompto is Actually a Pretty Good Student, Mind the OCs

**03\. Low**

“Mr. Argentum, can you please inform the class of the year in which herbalism was formally accepted by the arcane community as a branch of magic?”

“Uh...”

An unfortunately common classroom interaction. Prompto has always known that his memory doesn’t exactly “work” when it comes to memorizing the nitty-gritty of historical dates. He just can’t get the specifics! And the frustrating part is that he  _knows_  that he knows this information. For crying out loud, he studies for  _hours_  every day, but when asked in class his mind blanks and he ends up looking like some sort of slacker. He’s been studying so hard that he hasn’t even had an opportunity to approach you like he’d wanted, leaving things off so awkwardly with you. The blond doesn’t want to get kicked out of school, after all.

Arch-Mage Decima watches Prompto closely. He’s one month into his Spire training and he’s a solid B student. He’s not exemplary but he puts in an effort and receives a grade according to that effort. If he were under any other magister’s tutelage, he’d be flunking. It’s a good thing, then, that this program is Decima’s. Her classroom is small and well-heated; a gray, dismal room with two tiny windows that let in an even grayer light from the overcast morning sky. 18 scholars have dropped down to 10 in one month. One of Prompto’s roommates left after the results of the first exam. It was a shame. Prom kinda liked him, though the guy didn’t talk much.

Everyone in this program is so…  _quiet_. Prompto feels like such a loudmouth in comparison. All three of the remaining history program scholarship recipients huddle together like a bunch of budgies in lavender cardigans; eating together, studying together,  _sometimes_  talking together. Prom enjoys the easy company of Retha Ayo and Dana Nagi. Retha is twenty-two and brilliant and Dana is creeping up on thirty and the most articulate person Prompto has ever met. Both of them make him feel like he’s braindead but they gravitate toward the human sunbeam like they need him to live.

Honestly, if asked, they’ll both readily admit that Prompto Argentum is the only thing that makes their Spire experience bearable. Already, they’ve established a working dynamic. The other seven history program students made it abundantly clear that having the “right” surname was all they cared about and immediately wrote Prom, Retha, and Dana off without even talking to them. So, the trio only helps  _each other_  out -- petty as that might be. And Prom feels kinda guilty for being so damn grateful that the smartest people in the program are social outcasts like him. He doesn’t know if he’d still be here if it weren’t for Dana’s editing skills or Retha’s flashcards.

“No answer?” Decima gives him another chance, expression properly reserved though her eyebrows are politely raised. At the sight of Prompto’s red face, she nods and turns that intense gaze off of him. The tall blonde magister then turns around and writes a date on the board without further ado.

Prompto lets out an inaudible sigh of relief, slumping at his desk. That’s one thing that Prom loves about Arch-Mage Decima: She doesn’t harangue students when they can’t answer her questions. Her method is so different compared to practically every teacher he ever had -- the types who would nearly foam at the mouth and give him detention just for drawing a blank, like that would somehow make him miraculously learn the material. He’s unaware of how insulated he is here in the Spire. If Arch-Mage Decima is unable to teach class, Magister Drusa substitutes. And both of them know of his relation to Crown Prince Noctis.

Decima had pretty much sniffed out Prompto’s intentions practically the second his application landed on her desk. Beneath the BS explanation of wanting to “expand his horizons” and other buzzwords that peppered his essay, Decima saw what his angle was: He wants to get to know her child. A reasonable aspiration, given your position and Prompto Argentum’s status as the Crown Prince’s best friend. And it’s not as though Prompto is the first person to enter the Spire with the intention of meeting (y/n) Iovita. There are strange people who are fascinated with the Iovita family, almost to the point of obsession. But Decima doesn’t think that Prom is one of  _those_.

“Class is dismissed for the day,” Decima announces after that three-hour lecture. It’s three hours every day, which seems simple enough, not even being the equivalent of a full course-load. However, it’s expected that the rest of the day will be spent studying, researching, analyzing notes, and reading in preparation for tomorrow’s lecture. Classes are Monday through Friday, from seven in the morning until ten. Usually, Prompto crashes in his room afterward and Dana wakes him up at noon to eat lunch and then they drag Retha from the library to go study out on the grounds near the greenhouse, weather permitting.

But today, Prompto is going to deviate from that schedule. It’s late February and he doesn’t have any exams coming up. His next one is in two weeks and Prompto takes this as an opportunity to finally attempt to speak to you once more. He’s been texting Noct religiously and the prince’s phone calls are the only ones he receives. Each time, Noct asks if Prom has finally “made his move,” whatever that means. Oh, how the prince had smirked when Prompto hesitantly revealed that the “mystery mage” who had caught his eye was none other than (y/n) Iovita. “You’re in love with  _(y/n)_?” Noct had snorted. “(y/n) Iovita?  _That_  (y/n)?”

Yes, that (y/n).

Soon enough, when you begin to prepare to “seamlessly” enter into Prince Noctis’ inner-circle, Prompto’s file will end up on your desk. You’ll discover who he is and you, too, will sniff out what he’s doing here. For now, he’s just some guy from Insomnia who probably signed up for the program to spruce up his CV or to mentally torture himself. He’s just some guy who looks as tired as the rest of the Spire mages, all huddled up with his shoulders up near his ears, cardigan pulled tight to his body to keep out the chill. He’s just some guy who always, without fail, waves at you enthusiastically the second you make eye contact in the corridors like he isn’t the least bit fatigued.

And today, he’s just some guy who chases you down, calling out to you in the corridor this time instead of just waving.

“(y/n)!”

You freeze in the middle of stepping out onto the staircase. From experience, you know it’s best not to try and engage in conversation whilst traversing that death trap. A few students bustle by, hastening to grab food and then rush off to class. Being in the final two years of your training, your schedule is a bit laxer. At this point, you’re probably more knowledgable than most tenured magisters, which they’ll admit to their own chagrin. Most days you’re just writing papers until someone calls on you to see some display of magic to be sure you aren’t getting rusty. Or you’ll be called on to spar with Cato, the Crownsguard member who trains you in basic combat.

Sometimes (oh, and you  _hate_  this) if a magister is ill or can’t make it to class for some other reason, you’re called on to substitute. Believe it or not, but even the students who hate you with every ounce of their being enjoy (y/n) Substitute Days. That’s because you keep lectures short (for your own sake) and aren’t a harsh grader. You’ve never seen the sense in ridiculing students. Having been ridiculed by magisters yourself, you know it’s more likely to turn a student off of a subject than actually succeed in engaging them in the material. Plus, you just like for Spire students to think that you’re better than the magisters. It’s the small, petty things.

So, even though you’re in no particular rush to be anywhere, the second you see that it’s  _Prompto Argentum_  who is trying to flag you down, you panic and the blond thinks it’s because you’re on a tight schedule. The book in your arms is squeezed so tight that you wind up giving yourself a bruise. Still, you don’t succumb to your urge to run. Ever since Prompto showed an interest in you, you’ve been feeling… a little weird about it, to be perfectly honest. This is the most attention you’ve had in your life. Well, the most  _positive_  attention. The way the blond’s face lights up at the sight of you is something you don’t think you can get used to.

For crying out loud, the guy doesn’t even _know_ you! It’s been a solid month of frantic waving in the hallways or him trying to sit next to you at breakfast only for you to awkwardly stand up and leave whilst visibly cringing, cup of coffee in hand. Such a rude thing to do. But being the starry-eyed optimist that he is, even given the general snobbery that he’s been confronted with in this bourgie college, Prompto just thinks it’s ‘cause you’re busy. You’re training to become Noctis’ arcane advisor, after all! He’s blissfully unaware that it’s pure, unadulterated social ineptitude that has had you bailing out of every social interaction before they’ve even taken off.

But now he has you cornered, in a sense. Your options are to either talk to him or rush down the stairs and risk death. And although death might be less painful than a conversation with a stranger, you’d like to see the world beyond the Spire’s walls before you finally kick the bucket.

Many airs are put on so that you can formally address the blond who rushes up to you. A mental note is made of the dark circles under his eyes and the slump in his posture. The Spire has certainly worn him down a bit but it sure hasn’t taken the pep out of his step. “Oh, good morning. Prompto Argentum, was it?”

“Yeah. That’s me!” He’s thrilled that you remembered his name after all this time of next to no contact. Is that sad? Prom holds his books under one arm to free up the other for the sole purpose of clapping you on the shoulder. He totally misses the way you freeze at the friendly contact. “I was just coming by to see if you wanted to… I dunno? Hang out? Do you have the time?”

“Well...” Okay, you have every intention of shooting him down. You aren’t exactly the type of person who “does” idle chatter. Though you’ve been bred to be the perfect scholar, you’ll be the first to admit that perhaps some social etiquette training should’ve been wedged into your curriculum. Maybe between the hours upon hours you spent learning how to format papers and the time you spent teaching yourself to crudely spell out “Fuck Off” in ancient runes? And no one’s ever asked you to hang out before. Well, sometimes people ask but then they flake or get all weird. You have your doubts. Yet somehow your mouth blocks out your brain to blurt, “Sure.”

Why? Why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you setting yourself up for failure? He’s not  _that_ cute. Okay, so he’s really cute. But he’s not cute enough for you to willingly subject yourself to social torture. Okay, he  _is_  that cute. Shit. It’s his energy that does you in. There’s something rather invigorating about this weirdo named Prompto Argentum. Even looking as ragged as he does, he has somehow managed to put a smile on your face and you don’t even realize it until he nearly splits his lips grinning at your response. The corridor has emptied now, leaving the two of you alone on the very drafty seventh floor.

“Is there anywhere that you like to hang out?” Prompto wonders, a victory song still playing in his head. This is going great! Oh, he’s  _so_  going to rub this in Noct’s face later. He’s smooth. As. Hell. “I mean, I know I’ve been here over a month now, but I haven’t really had the time to explore outside of your mom’s classroom, the dining hall, my bedroom, the library, the bathrooms-” Oh, gods. Eyes begin to glaze over. You wonder if he’s really going to list every damn room he’s been in in this godsforsaken college. “-and the greenhouse.”

You perk up at that. “The greenhouse?” When the blond nods, you suggest, “Then how about we hang out there? There shouldn’t be a class out today, so it should be fine.”

“Cool. Sounds like a plan.”

Ignoring his need to comment on everything that you say, you gesture for him to walk with you and the two of you descend the staircase. And then you realize one thing about Prompto Argentum that might actually be the death of you: He feels the need to fill each and every silence with idle chatter. Commentary on the color of the stones used to build the Spire, how eerie the Arch-Mage portraits are (“Oh, but Arch-Mage Decima’s is  _really_ pretty! Hers isn’t creepy at all!”), that he wishes the weather would warm up soon, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The silver lining is that he doesn’t force you to talk. In fact, it doesn’t seem to bother him at all that you don’t.

And it doesn’t. As Prom keeps talking, those cornflower blue eyes dart in your direction every now and then. He keeps his hand on the railing and stays in step with you. You nod your head and blink rapidly a few times, a cue that you’re listening. There’s tension in your posture; back kept ramrod straight and chin held high. Your jaw is clenched. It’s something he’s seen before. It’s a hesitance to speak, a sort of reserved shyness. Then it hits him. Oh my gosh, you’re almost exactly like Noct! Well, you talk even  _less_  than Noct but you’re just as awkward. It makes the blond grin. He has to remind himself that you don’t know him, so he can’t just pinch your cheek.

That’d be assault, Prompto.

It’s gloomy and gray out, the type of weather that you’ve had in Duscae all winter. It makes your lavender sweaters all the more necessary up until you enter the greenhouse. Then, after a few minutes, Prompto is taking his off. “Wow. It’s warm in here,” he observes, sitting on the floor with you. The two of you had picked up tea and sandwiches in the dining hall before coming out. Now you eat quietly, listening to Prompto talk about how classes are going. He’s totally unaware that you’ve completely rearranged his schedule in your head to provide him with optimal studying times and factored in his desire for breaks. It’ll be written down for him later. He’ll blush.

“It’s for the plants,” you explain. “Their needs are very specific and this greenhouse is probably the most high-tech thing the Spire has. That might change if we get an elevator installed but I’ve been told that’s structurally impossible,” you grumble that last part into your jasmine tea.

Prompto grins. “An elevator would be great. They can install something on the outside, can’t they? I’ve seen that done with really old buildings before.” His grin grows wider when your eyes light up and you ask if that’s true. He pats your knee and confirms that it is.

Though your casual meeting with Prompto in the greenhouse is uneventful, Prom asks if you’d like to meet up like this again. With a jolt to his stomach, he stops himself from asking if you’d like to meet every day. When you slowly agree, he’s on cloud nine. The blond doesn’t know that the second it spreads that he’s being friendly with you, even those scholarship students will stop associating with him. And when they do, he’s quick to confront them. Prompto, though adverse to confrontation, doesn’t take wrongs laying down. Especially not when they hurt this much. To be isolated? Treated like a pariah by people he thought were his friends? He’s fuming.

He does it at dinner after three whole days of radio silence from Dana and Retha.

“Hey, guys.” His voice is casual, expression cool, as he sits down at the table. The dining hall is filled with chatter and some heated scholarly debates. People pay the trio no mind, as usual. A waiter comes for Prompto’s order and he requests something light.

“Oh, hey...” Dana mumbles, eyes cast down on his pot roast. It has barely even been picked at. The older man is having a tough time, getting up even earlier to avoid his roommate and coming in even later to achieve the same goal. Retha doesn’t even look over, lips pursed and tapping her spoon against the side of her soup bowl. She looks pissed. And Retha Ayo rarely ever looks pissed. Tired? Yes. But she’s never been an angry woman, not even when Prom accidentally dropped jam on her essay once. The atmosphere is tense. It makes Prompto lament over the fact that you apparently prefer to dine in your bedroom at dinner time.

“Okay, no. Enough,” Prompto growls, looking thoroughly frustrated with this borderline silent treatment. He reels it in a bit when his food is brought to him but turns it back on the second the waiter is gone. “What the heck is going on, guys? Did I do something wrong?”

Retha pinches the bridge of her nose and gives the blond a pointed look. Those brown eyes are downright simmering but Prom can detect remorse there. “We can’t be seen talking to you. Not anymore, Argentum.”

That? That stings. Like a sudden slap across the face, it stings. “What? Why?”

“Because of (y/n).” It’s Dana who says it, finally looking up at Prompto. He looks exasperated, as if he can’t fathom why Prom is having such a hard time understanding this.

“Huh?”

Retha’s pointed look becomes as sharp as a razor. “Don’t act so naïve. It’s an open secret that old-school Spire loyalists work here, the biggest one being Magister Talmudge. There are eyes and ears all over this place and there’s  _always_  been an ongoing campaign to get the Spire out of the Iovita family’s hands. Befriending (y/n) will get you absolutely nothing, Argentum.”

It takes over a month for Prompto to finally get this talk. Such an oblivious outsider who has never met a single Spire mage, there was no reason for him to know about the bizarre sociopolitcal workings of the Spire of Duscae with regard to the Iovitas and their allies. The most he knew about was the power discrepancy between scholarship students versus those who pay in full and legacy students versus those who are the first in their family to attend the institution. That’s the only “weirdness” that he’s encountered. And this one? He can’t wrap his head around it. “What are you guys talking about? The people of Lucis _love_  the Iovitas!”

They do! Don’t they? If they didn’t, why would the people on the news sing Arch-Mage Decima’s praises? Why would the Kingsglaive exalt Tacitus the Stormbearer? Why would millions of people tune into the TV to watch an Iovita kiss the King of Lucis’ ring and bless it? Prompto Argentum, innocent as he is, doesn’t know the history that wasn’t in his high school textbooks. The one where blood had to be spilled before the Iovitas took over the Spire. The one where the Spire kept that Iovita family tree nice and pruned and then denied ever having a hand in each carefully crafted murder. And Dana and Retha quickly realize that.

Dana shoots Retha an uncomfortable frown and she warns, “Look,  _everyone_  knows that the magisters are in cahoots. They don’t care about what the people of Lucis want -- they never have and that’s what made this college so unpopular until Aela Iovita took it over. If you keep trying to talk to (y/n) for whatever reason, the magisters won’t like that. They can’t tank your grades because you’re in the Arch-Mage’s program, but they  _can_ get you blacklisted so you won’t ever, and I mean  _ever_ , find a job once you graduate. So, please, Argentum. Either stop talking to (y/n) or stop talking to us.”

In this moment, Prompto feels like his world is spiraling. He came to the Spire with the sole purpose of befriending you. Yeah, he knows that might sound really weird to people if he ever admitted it, but he wants to be your friend. Add in the fact that he now knows that there’s some devious plot to have you _isolated_ because the magisters, what, don’t like your  _family_? If he didn’t want to befriend you before, now he wants to do it purely out of spite. The blond bites his lip. “Do you feel that way too, Dana?” When the man refuses to look at him, Prompto sighs and picks up his salad. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I never really had an interest in magic.”

They don’t ask him to stay. Prom knew they wouldn’t, but it still hurts anyway. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he finds himself knocking on your bedroom door all the way up on the fourteenth floor. It’s freezing here; dark and lonely even with the braziers lit. Prompto is feeling so very low and he’s starting to feel like you’re going to leave him here in the empty corridor when suddenly that heavy wooden door cracks open and a wicked eye peers out into the dimly lit hall. When you spot that miserable looking blond with his pathetic salad of greens and tomato, you open your door all the way and state, “I didn’t order a salad.”

Prom laughs. It’s hollow. “Can I come in?”


	10. Prompto: Wildflower pt.4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second to last part for this little series. It's... well... it's very cheesy. I figure after how the main fic has been going, it couldn't hurt to write some really sappy stuff. Let's see a relationship quickly develop over a few months in just 3k words. Aaaaaand go!
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Mild Angst, Prompto Is The Sappiest Friend You Could Ever Have, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Cheesier Than Five Cheese Pizza, With Extra Cheese, That’s Like… $5 Extra?

**04\. All Shook Up**

This? This is weird as hell. In all of your years of living in the Spire, tonight takes the cake. You’ve never had someone in your room before, much less someone sadly eating salad in your room before. For some reason, the thing you find the most bizarre is the fact that his salad doesn’t have any dressing. Prompto Argentum is eating a dry salad at your alchemy table, bottom lip pouted out a bit, legs occasionally kicking back and forth, while you sit on your bed and awkwardly shovel lentils into your mouth so you don’t have to talk.

Really, you hardly know the guy but know enough about him that this behavior is out of character. He’s bright and vivacious, not gloomy and brooding. Having been limited in your interactions to your mother, workers, Dru, and other magisters, you don’t have much experience with cheering people up. At least not intentionally. The group of people you’ve grown up around are hardly prone to bouts of melancholy but you’ve secretly streamed enough shows to know the gist of what to do. Plus, it’s not like you lack empathy. You’re not a  _complete_  robot.

Spoon taps against your plate a couple of times without rhythm, trying to get your fellow student’s attention. Prompto doesn’t look over, apparently too deep in his salad depression to even notice that annoying noise. Awkward tapping gives way to awkward throat clearing. Your throat is cleared enough times to sound like a car trying to start and Prom finally looks over. The second you make eye contact, you bluntly ask, “Did you really walk up fourteen flights of stairs to eat a wilted salad in my bedroom?”

Freckled cheeks blush and the blond looks back down at his salad. “Maybe...”

Well…  _That_  didn’t work. Silence resumes and you’re beginning to feel rather put out. Not to say that you find Prompto and whatever he’s going through to be an inconvenience, but you were hoping that by opening up a dialogue, he would actually  _talk_  instead of defaulting to morosely stabbing at greens. You adjust yourself at the foot of your bed, glance up at the portraits of your ancestors, and generally do other things that make your discomfort quite obvious. “Did something happen?”

As if he was waiting for that question all along, the blond immediately responds, “Not really. I just kinda got friend-dumped at dinner.” Big, morose blue eyes glance at you before returning to that pitiful salad.

He says it like you should understand what that means. People  _do_  that? You thought if someone didn’t want to be friends with someone anymore, they’d just stop talking to them and not go through the motions of, say, dumping a romantic partner. Although you personally think it’s a good thing that Prompto’s ex-friends told him outright rather than leave him twisting in the wind (unaware that they did just that until  _he_  forced a conversation), you comment, “Oh. By all of your friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Mind wanders and you wonder if he’d judge you for keeping salad dressing under your bed. It’s unopened so it’s not like it spoiled under there. Does he like ranch? Then the blond sighs despondently again and you’re reminded that you’re in an even weirder spot than explaining the presence of ranch dressing under your bed. “Um. Well. I know I don’t have a TV or anything interesting in my room, but if you’re willing to make the trek you can dine here whenever you’d like. Just be careful. I don’t know if you’re aware, but this floor is where the magisters’ quarters are housed.”

And just like that, Prompto Argentum is over the moon. In truth, he’d already mostly consoled himself with the fact that Noct is a fast texter and always, without fail, answers his calls so he _at least_ wouldn’t want for conversation. What he was agonizing over was that he just lost his human interaction outside of class discussion and progress report meetings with Arch-Mage Decima. But now he has dinner with (y/n)? Though it still hurts to get friend-dumped, he’s in a far better mood than he came here in.

Prom shoots you an impish grin and jokes, “Heh. Right, the magisters. We wouldn’t want them thinkin’ anything funny is going on in here, huh?”

Head tilts and you blink owlishly at him. “Funny? Like what?”

“Uh…” Under that innocent gaze that actually isn’t innocent but Prompto doesn’t know any better, the blond goes red in the face. Obviously you know what he’s joking about, you aren’t a fool and you’re an eighteen-year-old who has overheard conversations had by other eighteen-year-olds, but giving people a hard time is pretty much second nature to you. Plus, if there’s one thing you’ve learned in the few lunches you’ve had with the guy, it’s that watching him squirm is hilarious. Are you evil? Maybe. But the way he stammers is priceless. “N-Nothing. It was just a bad joke.”

“Oh. Okay.” You smile politely and nod, not once revealing your more devilish nature. Lentils are consumed in dead silence because now, instead of being hurt, Prompto is embarrassed. That red hue has yet to abate and has even spread to the tips of his ears. His salad, which was once being neglected, is now being wolfed down like the guy hasn’t eaten in days. He almost chokes on a slice of tomato and you hurry to get off of your bed and pat him on the back. He waves you off, even redder. In your defense, you don’t know that he  _actually_  has a crush on you. You just think that he’s awkward and kind of a flirt.

“I’m fine!” Prom sputters, stuck using the sleeve of his sweater to wipe the spit from his mouth since he doesn’t have a napkin. Oh, gods he’s  _mortified_. First he makes an inappropriate joke and then he spits on himself in front of you? Prompto just wants to  _die_ … Well, actually, if death is as painful as choking on lettuce and tomato, he doesn’t wanna die. But he sure does want to leave. The second he stands up, lithe body full of tension, you know he’s going to run due to shame. Is it a little sad that you only know it because you’ve done it so often?

Putting your own personal issues aside, you suddenly exclaim if only to save him from a night of wallowing in shame, “I just realized that I’ve been a  _horrible_  host! Please, let me fix you something special to drink.” Before the blond can object, you’re pushing him back down onto his chair and making your way across the room. You crack open your old, scuffed curio cabinet and rummage around, humming a little tune all the while.

Prompto is expecting something magical because you’re, well,  _you_. He’s totally not expecting packets of hot chocolate and a baggie of marshmallows. He does, however, get  _some_  magic. Those blue eyes are wide when you hold a mug in your hand and embers begin to crackle up around your skin. He’s hesitant to take the hot chocolate from you and is bamboozled by the fact that your skin feels like… skin. Just a regular hand at a totally normal body temperature. Just a regular hand that he holds for far too long when he goes to take the mug. Whoops.

There’s a cheesy grin on his face when he examines his mug to see that it’s handmade. It was a project a maid assigned to you to keep you occupied during your hellion days. “Thanks, (y/n).” He sips his hot chocolate. Though it’s instant, it’s the best he’s ever had. And he really appreciates what you’re doing. C’mon, it’s not as though he  _actually_  believes that you suddenly remembered that you had packets of hot chocolate hidden under what looked like a stone tablet just as he was about to make a mad dash for your door, screaming internally.

“It’s no trouble,” you reply lightly, stirring the powder into your own cup of hot water. Sitting back down on your bed, you fix the fidgety blond with a weirdly stern smile and remind him, “And the offer still stands, so you know. Just remember to knock because sometimes I’m working on dangerous things in here. By the way, don’t tell anyone that or the invitation is revoked and I’ll tell my favorite cook to spit in your food. She won’t because she’s too ethical, but just know that it’ll be in the back of her mind.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Prompto assures you, struggling not to laugh.

Here he was, entering the Spire and thinking you’d be some intimidating intellectual, being the soon to be arcane advisor to his royal best friend and all, and you’re serving him hot chocolate in a mug that you obviously made when you were a kid. On one of your lunch outings together, you grabbed his arm and excitedly pointed out a bird using its scientific name and Prom had almost lost it. Oh, boy was his ego feeling good when he took some photos with his phone and you asked him to send them to you because they were “high quality.”

And now he’s got an invite to eat at what he deems to be the “cool table.” Is he going to scream on the phone about this to Noct? Hell yes. Is he going to tell his best friend about the weird, toxic dynamic swirling around you in the Spire like a thick cloud of miasma? Maybe later. The blond doesn’t want the prince to either try and have his father intervene in what seems like a delicate political situation or for Noct to even suggest that maybe it’s not such a good idea for Prom to befriend you.

‘Cause yeah it’d be much easier to just leave you be and get his fearful friends back. But Prompto Argentum has always, always,  _always_  been hardheaded. And though it hurt to be abandoned for who he decided to hang out with, Prom can’t help but feel disappointed in Dana and Retha. Why play into the magisters’ hand? Why help further whatever agenda they have against you? Prompto won’t be governed by fear. In fact, now knowing that old Spire purists are  _still_  gunning for your family makes him want to befriend you even more.

And the deal is done. Out of Prom’s sheer pigheadedness and your inability to deny his weaponized puppy eyes, a friendship is born. It’s a bit touch and go at first, considering you’re both incredibly busy that it’s far easier to not meet up or talk, but you both seem to seek each other out over the most minuscule of things; “This fried egg I got looks like an old man!” “Yeah, right. Come up and show me, Argentum.” It takes a couple of weeks of Prompto arriving at your door, pink-cheeked and sweaty, for you to let him in on a little-known Spire secret.

The blond is chugging ice water when you suddenly blurt, “Can I trust you?” Of course he chokes, water spurting from his nose as you watch placidly from where you read on your bed.

“Ye-Yeah. Of course!” His voice is a little worse for wear, considering he just swallowed an ice cube. The sleeve of his sweater is used to ineffectively dry off the essay he just pulled out from his bag for you to edit (he’d nearly cried tears of joy when you’d offered to do it yesterday). Prom pouts at the ruined ink and then turns that pout onto you.  _Why_  did you have to hit him with that question when he was holding something so important? This essay is due tomorrow! And your mother is such a strict grader!

A grin spreads across your face at the way he aggressively nods his head, still frowning at you. “Wow. Love the enthusiasm. Anyway, there’s a secret passage leading from a vacant room on the third floor, where most of the residential rooms are, to one of the thirteenth floor’s classrooms. It’s a very narrow stairwell and should make it easier for you to come and go from my room since there will be less ‘traffic’ to deal with.”

A series of emotions flicker across his face before settling on concern. “Why is there a stairwell there?”

“I’m not really sure but there are a few of them connecting random floors. They’re hidden really well but, growing up  _here_ , I had the opportunity to find them all,” you proudly inform your blond friend. Although those secret stairwells make it much easier for you to sneak around, it’s not like it cuts down on your step count. Honestly, the amount of walking one has to do in the damn Spire is probably why you’re always snacking on something. Oh, and Prom already found your hidden bottle of ranch dressing. He silently put it back under your bed.

After a brief pause, Prompto wonders, “Is there one in  _my_  room?”

Shoulders shrug, which is a bit difficult considering you’re currently on your stomach with your elbows planted on the bed. “Well, yes. But it leads to the basement.”

There’s a long pause in which Prompto Argentum simply stares at you, wondering how you could say that so casually to him like it’s no big thing. “I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, on the one hand: Cool secret passage! And on the other hand: Cool secret passage that leads to the  _basement_!”

You laugh and ask if he’d like for you to show him the passages. He agrees to a tour after his class tomorrow and uses his misfortune of walking into a cobweb to hold onto the sleeve of your sweater. Over the next couple of months, Prompto has dinner in your room every single night and sometimes takes his lunch or breakfast to your room. When you aren’t there, he leaves you gifts of candy or wildflowers that he collected from the grounds. He even brings his computer so that the two of you can watch movies and TV series.

“This show is  _awful_ ,” you often complain, totally transfixed on the screen.

“I know,” Prom will respond, passing the bowl of popcorn over to you.

When he’s halfway through the history program and beginning to panic about his lack of a study buddy (“Not that I don’t count you! I just mean… it’s different since we don’t have the same classes. Y’know?”) you break out a massive binder that weighs about twenty pounds and is decorated with an obscene amount of post-its. It’s dropped on your alchemy table before the blond and you slap your hand down on the cover. “Okay, I’m gonna give you something and it’s  _not_  meant as a method of cheating. You’ll still be doing a lot of work.”

Blue eyes drag up to you from where they’d been ogling the binder in awe and confusion. “What’re you talking about?”

At this point in his academic career he’s flunked one test (you’d hugged him as he cried and logically informed him that it would average out with the other tests if he does well), barely scraped by with low Bs on a ludicrous amount of research papers, and is beginning to look weathered. He has bags under the bags under his eyes, he yawns  _constantly_ , and sometimes he looks like he’s about to break down over minor inconveniences. But he still makes time to hang out with you. Time that you  _know_  he should be spending toward his studies.

And you can empathize. You can totally relate to putting up a front when all you want to do is scream and trash your desk. Because this is  _a lot_  of work and even an amazing work ethic isn’t enough sometimes. Plus, you know your mother. Decima has high hopes for the Spire, same as your grandfather did. They both agreed that Spire students should leave the college with a strong work ethic and excellent research and writing skills. But she’s far removed from the realities of college life, having not been a student herself in decades.

Sitting down next to Prompto, you put your hand on his shoulder and explain, “Look, a few years back I helped my mother revise the material for her program. I did it for fun and she really valued my input and implemented the changes I made to the curriculum.” You open the binder and flip through a few pages where you’ve written in the margins. “This is every outline for the reading material. You’re still going to be reading everything, but I highlighted all of the important bits that will be tested on.”

“Wh-What?” Those freckled cheeks go pink. “Isn’t that cheat-?”

Wicked eyes cut him. “Did you black out or something? I _just_  said that you’re still going to be doing the work.”

Now his cheeks are red. “Sorry.”

You sigh, “This just shows you what to focus on so you don’t get sidetracked by stuff that you  _think_  is important. Mother is an excellent instructor but she does tend to get caught up on fine details rather than making sure students are aware of broader concepts. She really loves dates but, obviously, there are so many of them that it would be futile to attempt to memorize them all given the time constraints of the program. I’ve highlighted the important ones but it would still behoove you to attempt to learn the others in your reading material.”

When you’re finished explaining yourself, you push the binder closer to Prompto. He takes it and ghosts his fingertips over the pages, eyes dancing over your notes. Suddenly, he’s struck by how much you care. His cheeks are growing warmer. His nose burns. Oh, no! Is he going to cry? Gods, he hates that he’s cried in front of you as many times as he has. You must think he’s a big baby, huh? So, when next he speaks it’s done into his shoulder, face turned away from you. “Thank you, (y/n).”

Watching him closely, you can see how he restricts his breathing and his shoulders are squared. It’s something he usually does to try and refrain from crying. A smile reaches your face at the blond’s endearing theatrics. He’s honestly the strangest person you’ve ever met. “Oh, please. Don’t thank me, Argentum. I didn’t hand you an easy A.  _You_  still have to make the grade yourself, dork. That way you can graduate and get out of my hair,” you snark and playfully shove his shoulder, blissfully unaware of the fact that this is the man you’re going to be married to for the rest of your life.


	11. Prompto: Wildflower pt.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we’ve reached the end of this little AU side story. I hope the anon who requested it has enjoyed it. Just to add to the tackiness that is this blog and everything about it, I’ve tacked on a song. Molly Burch’s "Please Be Mine.”
> 
> This was a ton of fun to write!
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, An Overactive Conscience, Fluffy Nonsense, Friendship Bracelets, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Feelings, Mild Angst, The Lamest of Endings

**05\. Adieu**

He’s used to you. You’re not sure how you feel about that but now you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s pure evil. You’ve suspected it for months but never had solid evidence. Pranks and the sort. Random calls to your phone from an unknown number, things moved around on your desk and furniture flipped in your room. Prompto Argentum’s pranks make him akin to some sort of annoying and mildly inconvenient poltergeist. He’s  _really_  familiar.

His jokes have become a bit bolder. Some of them are suggestive, delivered with pink cheeks and a gaze that seems hellbent on holding yours even as sweat beads on his brow. You nearly kill him when you play along. As the days go by, you’re starting to suspect that maybe he’s looking for more than friendship. Can’t quite put your finger on anything in particular that makes you feel that way. Because sometimes jokes are just jokes and a look is just a look.

But he’s also leaving soon. You’re not sure how you feel about  _that_ , either. Proud? You’re definitely proud. With your guidance, he’s actually managed an A-, which is anything below a 93 in your mother’s book, and Prom has been teetering on the edge between a B+ and an A- for ages now. And finally,  _finally_ , he’ll be closing out the year with an admirable A-. It’s mostly thanks to your editing and his willingness to take advice. He’s surprisingly humble and open to suggestion.

However, you don’t just feel proud. There’s something else that sits heavy in your stomach and keeps you up at night. Sometimes, you find yourself staring at your ceiling in the darkness until daybreak. That’s been happening more and more frequently as the year draws to a close. Panic decides to hop along for the ride most days. It flutters in your chest and makes you ball your hands into fists. And you find yourself withdrawing. But that? You know why you do  _that_.

Standing outside of your bedroom door with his dinner in hand, Prompto knows why you’ve been avoiding him, too. He knows why you haven’t shown up at the greenhouse for lunch or responded to his texts. He knows why you always make sure to be gone by the time he makes it up to your room for breakfast. You’re the type who likes a clean break, huh? Or at least the appearance of one. And maybe he can give you that because there’s something that he’s been hiding from you.

Maybe he can make you relieved that he’ll be gone rather than sad.

This “secret” is something that’s nagged at him since the moment he met you. But no moment ever felt like the right moment to say, “Oh, hey, by the way, I’m your future boss’ best friend. Y’know, Noct? Crown Prince Noctis? Yeah. I’m that dude’s number one guy!” ‘Cause, hey, that’s never been anything that he’s ever advertised. Though practically a braggart by trade, Prompto Argentum hasn’t ever been the type to name-drop. Especially not for personal gain.

Plus, there’s a part of him that always feared you’d hate him if you knew. He’s not really sure why. Maybe because your service to Noctis is the reason why you’re locked away in this gray tower, surrounded by enemies, in the first place? If you’d only spoken about Noct  _once_ , Prom tells himself he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to come clean. But you aren’t the type to flaunt your duty, either. It’s only brought up to rub in the face of a magister or to verbally stomp on the throat of a posturing student.

So, the secret has remained hidden to all but your mother and Drusa, who looked over his application and had a dossier drawn up on him from Lucian intelligence. Regis had been apprised of the request for intel and had raised his eyebrows when he found out the request was from Dee with the subject: “Spire applicant, Insomnia citizen.” His eyebrows nearly went off of his damn forehead when he saw who the applicant was. Prompto Argentum?  _Noct’s_  Prompto?

And then he went to hover over Noct and see if his son was okay with the separation after clearing Decima for the information on one of his citizens.

But I digress. The point is you’ve been unaware of Prompto’s connection to the man you’ll serve faithfully for the rest of your life and Prom somehow thinks that by finally revealing that to you, you’ll resent him for lying by omission throughout your entire friendship. And even though the blond believes that this information has a chance of blowing up a friendship that he’s come to regard highly, he’s willing to take that hit if it means you won’t be sad when he’s gone.

It’s amazing logic, really. That self-sacrificer has earned every pinch of his cheek that you’ve given him this past year. Even the ones where you hold onto his cheek and shake it a bit to make it extra “painful.” Funny how that pain is immediately forgotten the second you say, “You’re precious, Argentum.” But, yet again, I digress. Because Prompto Argentum isn’t thinking about pinched cheeks as he stands outside of your bedroom door with cold rice and an even colder salmon steak.

He’s thinking about how he might ruin the only other substantial friendship he’s made for himself tonight. His heart races at the idea of gutting a relationship that he formed based on his own merit and not through connections that relied on his “friend of a friend” status. A small voice in the back of his head says not to do it, screams at him to keep his mouth shut when he knocks on your door and for the first time in almost a week, you answer it.

“Evening, Argentum,” you greet soberly from your doorway, eyes darting down to his plate of food. “Need that heated up?”

Of course, he says yes, like always, since fourteen flights of stairs can’t be climbed without taking a few breaks on landings. Another indicator of how much this friendship means to him: He’ll climb fourteen flights of stairs even if there’s a chance you might turn him away. Stepping aside, you allow your blond best friend in and shut the door behind him. There’s something stiff to his gait and his posture is rigid. Turns even more rigid when he sees your room.

Faerie lights decorate the space, except they aren’t faerie lights. They’re little contained balls of flame no larger than cranberries and they bob and sway like they have a life of their own. And then Prompto remembers what he’s really doing here.  _You_  called on  _him_. There’s something hidden in his sweater that he nearly forgot about. He’s here, in your room, to celebrate the winter solstice and his completion of the Arch-Mage’s history program. Then he’ll be out of the Spire during the first week of January.

Honestly, the blond wants to kick himself for getting so caught up in his own head that he forgot all of that. Even with your gift tucked away in his sweater, nestled close to his side, he made himself forget by nearly drowning himself in anxiety. While he’s been struggling internally, you’ve pulled out his chair at your multipurpose table which has been cleared of all alchemy components and gesture for him to sit. The table is set with tea and spice cake, which will be devoured, leaving the salmon ignored.

“So, uh, you did a great job decorating,” Prom awkwardly compliments, struggling to pull himself out of grim thoughts to be present in this moment with you. Blue eyes linger on the thick layer of fluffy white frosting on the spice cake and you’ve cut him a slice before he can fully sit down across from you. Tea is poured and he takes a sip. It’s something mellow so as not to overshadow the various fragrant spices of the cake that the Spire chef who favors you always bakes for you this time of the year.

The atmosphere is tense despite the pretty and homey decorations. There are clumsily cut snowflakes made of paper that are stuck to the walls. Prompto does a double-take when he realizes you enchanted them to glisten. If he were to go near them, he’d find that they’re icy to the touch like they’re real snowflakes. Oh, how you absolutely  _adore_  the blond is made obvious in the effort you put forward in decorating. It’s all for his viewing pleasure.

And it’s also a subtle way of apologizing for growing distant in anticipation of his departure. It’s something you’ve kicked yourself over, wasting time sulking when you should’ve been spending more time with the vibrant and funny blond. You hope you can make amends tonight with the gift you have in the pocket of your sweater. But before you can get started, Prompto stands up and comes to stand beside you, fishing around in his own sweater while you have a forkful of cake shoved in your mouth.

Out of his sweater, a small glass globe is pulled out. It depicts a cabin in the woods. “I almost forgot that I got you a snow globe! Look, you just shake it and-” As Prompto nervously shakes the small item in his hands to demonstrate what he’s talking about, it flies out of his grasp and smashes against the floor by your feet, sending glass shards and glittery water all over the place. He’s frozen in time, hands still posed like he’s holding that cute little snow globe. Damn. His confidence is very much like that snow globe right now.

Eyes stare at the mess a second longer before you casually return your gaze to your blond best friend and say, “Thanks so much. I’ve got a gift for you, too. Sit back down.” The easy way that you say this doesn’t betray an ounce of your irritation. Look, glass is a bitch to clean up. And now you’re gonna have glitter stuck on the floor for a century. It’s a shame, too. That tiny cabin with fir trees ensconcing it remains intact and you’ll keep it on the shelf beside your desk.

But for now, you leave it on the floor and dig in your pocket a moment before producing a bracelet made of stretchy black fabric with a small, circular bit of clear plastic attached to it. The plastic has a hole in the middle where you tied the two ends of the fabric. You also dulled the outer edges of the plastic so it (hopefully) won’t cut Prom. A little something extra (and probably too sentimental) was added to it in the hopes that Prom doesn’t find it  _too_  ugly or plain.

“Oh, wow!” Well, no fear of him finding it ugly. The blond practically acts like you’re handing him the world with how carefully he takes the trinket from you. It’s put on quickly and he flexes his wrist to admire the little bauble. This is so cool! A gift from (y/n)? And a handmade one, to boot? Noct’s gonna be so jea- Then his eyes go even wider and those freckled cheeks go pink when you pull back the sleeve of your sweater to reveal a matching bracelet. “O-Oh. Wow.”

Ignoring how his cheeks are getting darker by the second, you lean across the table and instruct, “Look.” The second your bracelet gets within a foot of his, the plastic begins to emit a soft blue light that gently pulsates. It’s hypnotizing to look at and makes Prompto’s breath catch in his throat. “They glow when we’re- when they’re near each other. It gets stronger the closer they are to each other and stops when they get far enough away. I can't really tell you how far, though. Truth be told, I couldn't test it too much.”

Prom’s gaze slowly lifts from the pulsating bracelets to your face. “I…”

Sitting back abruptly, you take a sip of your tea and say quite plainly, “I’m giving you this because I’m hoping that even though you’re leaving…” You clear your throat and take another sip of tea. “I’ve got about a year left here and I just wanted you to know that when I’m out of here I- I’ll find you.”

“What?”

Now  _your_ face is the one to grow hot. Heat creeps down your neck, threatening to give you a rash. You’re no good at this sentimental stuff and you’d die if you come across as clingy to the biggest clinger you know. Hell, the guy sent you frequent texts when he was forced to leave the Spire during holidays because only students who come from overseas can stay through the holiday breaks. It’s why you’re celebrating the winter solstice early with gifts and spice cake.

Throat is cleared again like you’re coming down with something or haven’t had a drink of water in days. “If you want to remain friends after, of course,” you clarify in a rather businesslike manner.

And Prompto Argentum just can’t do this anymore.

The sweet gift? The endearing request to remain friends even after he leaves? He feels absolutely wretched because his overactive sense of guilt is telling him that he’s technically been lying to you this whole time and he doesn’t deserve your kindness. Prom can’t stand the idea that if you know the truth you might say that this whole friendship was built on a lie. Though you already guessed that he only entered the Spire to meet you (“Lots of weirdos- I mean, people, do that.”) you don’t  _really_  know.

So he shouts the reason with no context: “I’m Prince Noctis’ best friend!”

You blink when he shouts this. A few emotions flicker through your brain and you settle on bemusement. Are you surprised, though? Yes. And you don’t really wanna vocalize  _why_  because the first thing that goes through your head isn’t exactly nice. Regarding social standings, Prompto is nobody of consequence. It’s why he’s remained relatively friendless here in the Spire. So you’ve no idea how he managed to befriend the  _Crown Prince of Lucis_.

With that in mind, however, you don’t doubt that he’s telling the truth. It’s just a strange truth.

But, more importantly, you don’t know  _why_ that’s standing in the way of you and him remaining friends. So, in an effort to suss out the truth (and you kinda assume it might be that the prince doesn’t want you befriending his close personal friend in order to keep your business relationship with the prince nice and clean), you ask, “Does that mean you can’t be mine as well? I suppose it does make sense that one can only have a single best fr-”

“Aren’t you mad?” Prompto interrupts, brow furrowed. Here he was, expecting you to coldly order him to get out of your sight and never speak to you again, but… None of that has happened yet. Your face remains as frustratingly impassive as usual and your tone is even. Hell, his hands haven’t stopped shaking under the table since he shouted. He even feels a little faint, to tell the truth. Oh, gods, Prompto loathes confrontation. Especially with someone he has a massive crush on.

Hand gestures vaguely to the slice of untouched cake on his plate. As if compelled to do so, the blond begins anxiously shoveling the sweet into his mouth after you gesture toward it. Watching him a moment, you finally admit, “Well, a bit, if I’m being completely honest. But I can’t begrudge the prince for meeting you first.”

“I mean, you’re not mad at me for not telling you before? For not mentioning that I’m Noct’s friend?” Asks Prompto, mouth full of spice cake and frosting stuck to the corners of his mouth. The shutterbug just about dies when you reach over and wipe the corners of his mouth with your thumb. Luckily for him, you don’t eat the frosting but rather wipe your hand off on a napkin like a civilized person and not like the food-crazed mage you really are.

“That’s  _Prince_ -” You cut yourself off from correcting him about using the prince’s proper title. He’s the guy’s  _best friend_ , after all. Guess he’s allowed to be informal. “I’m a little surprised. I would assume that all of the prince’s friends would have fancy titles from their fancy Houses or work in the Citadel. Wait. Do you work in the Citadel?”

That head of fluffy blond hair shakes back and forth. “No. I met him at school.”

“P- Private school?”

“No. We went to the same public school.”

And then you just stare and stare and for the first time in your life, you resent the prince but not for any reason that most reasonable people might think. Lips pursed, you huff, “The most upsetting thing you’ve told me tonight is that Crown Prince Noctis went to a public school. I would’ve  _killed_  to-” At Prompto’s nonplussed expression (because he can’t fathom why anyone would wanna be subjected to the criminally boring experience that is public school), you clear your throat. “Never mind.”

“So, you’re not mad at me?” Wonders Prom, finally relaxing back against his chair. He hadn’t realized how tense he was this whole time. Having his muscles coiled up so tight and relaxing them now makes him feel exhausted. Beneath the table, he toys with the bit of plastic on his wrist. It’s warm to the touch, having adjusted to his body temperature. Cornflower blue eyes flicker across your face, trying to find some hint that you might actually be mad and are just trying to placate him until he leaves.

But then you go and say, “Why would I be? I’d be more irritated if that was something you shouted from the rooftops or if you introduced yourself to me as the Crown Prince’s friend like that’s what defines you.” Chin lifts in that haughty way of yours and you stare down your nose at him. “It’s a good show of your character, Argentum. I’m just curious as to why you decided to tell me tonight.”

“Oh. Uh…” Crap!

“Is it because you don’t wish to remain in contact with me after you leave?” You wonder, leaning forward and cupping your chin in your hand, elbow planted on the table. Mouth pouts in a frown, wicked eyes are hooded. “If that’s the case, then I understand com-”

Panicked and aghast at the suggestion, Prom blurts, “What? No! I lo-” No! Bad Prompto! Don’t be creepy and overbearing! Take it in stages like Noct always said! Play it cool, not like a creep. Besides, that’s not a word to just fling at a mage before even saying you  _like_  them. And, gosh, he likes you  _a lot_. Just ask Noct. The poor raven-haired royal has had to endure many a conversation revolving around his future arcane advisor and he’s given more relationship advice than he’d care to admit.

The prince hasn’t even been in a relationship himself yet he feels like an expert with all of the research he’s done for his pal’s benefit. And one of the golden rules he made sure to constantly remind Prompto of is that you don’t spring “I love you” on someone from out of nowhere. Even if you think that person walks on water. And Prom remembers and  _stops_  himself, dragging out that “uh” sound like his brain just got fried and he needs to be rebooted. He diverts, “-ve keeping in contact with people!”

You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at him. Laugh and he’ll hide away in his shell. “You love keeping in contact with people? Like a hobby? That’s weird. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get mail delivered here.”

“It’s all sent to my address in Insomnia. I have like twenty pen-pals.” His nostrils flare when he says this. It’s something he does when he’s lying. Like when you found a bouquet of wildflowers collected from the grounds in front of your door with a little poem attached. Prompto was conveniently watching you from down the hall and you’d asked if he was the one who put them there. He’d gone a million shades of red and vehemently denied it. And his nostrils had flared.

Then, when you found a thin book on flower symbology in his bag (look, it  _fell out_  because you accidentally kicked his bag when he was taking a power-nap on your bed) and saw the various flowers he’d identified from the Spire’s grounds marked with sticky notes in the book, you’d asked about it and he said he only did that research  _after_  you showed him the bouquet because he wanted to make sure someone wasn’t “threatening you with a hidden message in the flowers.” And his nostrils had flared.

Eyes narrow and you drawl, “Oh, yeah?” Your hand comes up to toy with the bracelet around your wrist, fingertip tracing the edge of the plastic circle. Blue eyes follow the path of your index finger. “That’s interesting. ‘Cause I thought you were just gonna say that you keep in contact via phone. Like with that person you text all the time, which I’m guessing has been the Crown Prince since you said your parents don’t really keep in touch.”

He goes red. Those bright blue eyes fly up from where you play with your bracelet to the wicked expression on your face. “I may only text Noct b-b-but I get mail from other people  _all_  the time! I’m  _really_  popular!”

Your head tilts to the side, eyes glinting evilly. “Really? Not email? It’s much faster. Why do you and your pen-pals choose snail mail over email? There must be some draw to it if you’re willing to endure the wait.”

He’s so, so red. “It… makes us feel smart!”

“So, penning a letter makes you feel smart? That’s so fascinating.”

Oh gods, he’s an inhuman shade of red right now. “Yeah?” He swallows hard. Damn. In this sweater, he’s just sitting in a pool of his own sweat but he can’t, under  _any_  circumstances, admit to you that he was about to say that he loves you! Okay?! You guys aren’t even dating, for crying out loud! And surely any chance of that happening will get shot in the face the second you realize he’s been pining after you all this time. Gods, Prom thinks he’s so pathetic.

“Uh-huh.” Now your other elbow is on the table, fingers steepled below your chin as you pin Prompto Argentum with the most heated stare he’s ever been under. “Getting you to write your own essays was like pulling teeth. If I’d known about this before, I would’ve given you more incentive to write by telling you to pretend you were writing to  _your fictional pen-pals_!”

“Why are you givin’ me such a hard time over this? Gosh!” Arms are crossed and he slouches down in his seat like he’s being reprimanded.

You slouch back as well, mirroring him. “Why are  _you_  lying, you little liar? If you’re going to lie to me, at least be good at it.”

The blond glowers at you. “I wanna stay in touch with you.”

“Okay. So, why’d you go on with that pen-pal bullshit? That was  _so_  unnecessary.” And fun. As sadistic as it is to say, it’s amusing for you to catch the guy in a lie. His lies are always the benign sort yet he acts like they’re malicious. Clearly, he’s not suited for the Spire where lying is in everyone’s moral code. And maybe that’s why you like him so much. So, when he doesn’t answer you, you put up a steely front to confess, “I’m glad that you want to stay in touch. You’ve been the best part of this entire year for me.”

The color in his cheeks had slowly been abating and now it comes rushing back at your admission. It takes a second for him to find his voice to ask, “Re-Really?”

With a warm smile, you nod and affirm, “Really.”

The tense atmosphere is long gone, replaced with biting jokes and gentle ribbing as you let that odd moment pass. Prompto gives you his address when you ask if you can send him gifts. Up until he leaves the Spire for good, you stop trying to make yourself distant and instead unashamedly make yourself a clinger, wasting time watching movies. And at the sight of his packed bags and watery grin on his last gloomy morning at the college, with the air frigid and the ground wet with rain, you hug him.

It’s the first hug that you ever initiate and he drops his bags to wrap his arms around you. He sought you out here in the greenhouse where you work alone. Classes are over and yet here you are, exactly where he knew you’d be. Prompto buries his face in your neck, hugs you even tighter. It smells of fragrant flowers and freshly turned dirt on your last morning together in the Spire. He sniffles and you smile even though your eyes are burning. It’s time to go.

You step away and he almost refuses to let you go. Beneath the sleeve of your sweater, that little piece of plastic glows. “See you around, Argentum.” You’re too cocky, eyes not even a little red and expression as arrogant as ever. But you're confident that you're going to see him again and you _are_. Sure, you'll get run over by Ignis Scientia first and Prompto will wonder why the heck his bracelet is glowing at that moment until he sees _who_ got run over, but you'll see each other again.

A tear streaks down Prompto's face and he laughs, “Yeah, you will. See ya.” He turns before more tears can fall. For a moment, he just stands there in the greenhouse with his back to you, trying to compose himself. The blond stiffly leans down and picks up his bags. There’s a hint of blue as he shoots you one last, lingering glance over his shoulder as if he means to say something, but he seems to stop himself and then he walks away. And as he gets further, the blue light on his wrist fades.


	12. Gladiolus: Hiccups & Downs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Could you write about Gadio and magey's relationship in the Dear Hearts AU, specifically how they deal with breaking up and getting back together all the time? Do they ever think a break up is going to be The One where they don't get back together and do they even bother to celebrate anniversaries anymore?_
> 
> Ayyyy lame title, I know. Branches off of “Endlessly” where I made mention of y’all bickering and breaking up with Gladio frequently. Funnily enough, “canonically” for the main fic, y’all actually don’t argue that much ‘cause you already talked stuff out and have grown as people before you even met. ̄\\_(ツ)_/ ̄
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Angst, Mild Sexual Refs, Intense Tense Flippage, AU-ception, Talk it Out, Lambasting Someone isn’t Really Catharsis, But Gladio Needs to be More Diligent, Mages With Thin Skin, New Relationship So You Both Have Some Growing To Do, TBH

**Hiccups & Downs  **

You’ve never been very good with confrontation. It makes you sweaty. It makes your stomach hurt and your hands shake. The only silver lining to be found is that during a confrontation you pretty much have carte blanche to say things you’ve been holding in. Except that’s _not_ how it works in relationships. Not if you want them to last.  You’re aiming for catharsis but what you end up doing is hurting Gladiolus’ feelings. 

The argument isn’t even over something significant. Then again, your arguments hardly are. It’s as if the two of you are so accustomed to butting heads that now you don’t know any other way to be. You’ll argue over ramen flavors, stretching techniques, and the color of a damn t-shirt. Iris says it’s because you’re passionate. 

“He’s never been so happy before!” 

Is that really true? You wonder what sort of relationships he had before you two started dating for her to say something like that. However, in Iris’ defense, she isn’t privy to the nitty-gritty details of your relationship with her brother. And, in truth, sometimes you need a reality check. Because not every confrontation is the end of the world.  Everyone sees the kinda embarrassing PDA and they hear the playful banter riddled with innuendo. Hell, a few unlucky ones have walked in on you two in more... _passionate_ moments. Moments that definitely should’ve warranted the double-checking of locks or, better yet, a more appropriate venue for such activities. 

So, it seems rather sudden to everyone when you’ve broken up.  Of course, Iris is devastated. She’s very vocal about her disappointment that you actually begin to actively avoid her in the week that follows the big blowout. You’re disappointed, too. You don’t need to see those big, watery brown eyes to feel even _worse_. ‘Cause then you start thinking about Gladio and how he _looked_ at you. 

“Six, what was I thinking?” You groan, head thudding against your alchemy table. The mortar and a few glass bottles rattle as you continue the mild self-flagellation. It’s a rhetorical question to yourself. Because you know what you were thinking: You _weren’t_. Well, you were. In truth, you’d been feeling insecure about your relationship. 

Not very experienced in the romance department, you began reading a bunch of articles on how to maintain a healthy relationship. In quite a few of those articles you were informed that one must be upfront and outspoken about their likes and dislikes. What you didn’t read between the lines was that you need to tread carefully.  So unaware that Gladio becomes remarkably thin-skinned when hearing criticism from his lover (as most everybody does), you sort of... flubbed it. Instead of a reasonable complaint of: “Can you remember to take your underwear with you from now on? Noct found them last time and I’d prefer to avoid that happening again.” 

You went hardcore: “Gladiolus, your hygiene, or lack thereof, is appalling. It’s a wonder I’m having a sexual relationship with you much less a romantic one if this is how you are.” 

And then it just devolved into hurling insults to hide feelings of inadequacy. You didn’t even touch on what the issue really was. That is, poor Noct with a fever getting in your bed for some comfort as you brewed him some tea and his leg bumping against underwear that _definitely_ wasn’t yours and _definitely_ wasn’t clean.  Blinded by your own embarrassment, you ignored Gladio’s feelings and overlooked the respect he’s owed not only as your lover but as a person. You humiliated him. Thank the Six it was a private affair because neither of you left that argument looking good. In fact, you left it looking like a complete asshole. 

Which is why you didn’t and still don’t blame Gladio for growling, cheeks flushed and nostrils flaring, “Y’know what? If you’re finding that you have to _lower_ yourself to be with me, then just forget it, (y/n). This is over.” 

“ _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._ ” 

How long has it been? Five months? Gods, you couldn’t even make it work for half a year? Then again... this actually isn’t the _first_ time that this has happened. It’s the first time _he’s_ broken up with _you_ and the breakup has lasted _this_ long. Twice before you ended things with Gladio and he apologized within twenty-four hours.  His crimes against humanity? Telling Noctis to “stay the hell out of” one of your arguments that the prince had the misfortune of walking in on and you promptly spouted off once Noct left, “A slight against Noctis is a slight against me. Your lack of respect for him is very telling, Gladiolus. This isn’t going to work.” 

What were you two arguing about at the time? Nothing too light, actually. He wanted to formally introduce you to his father as his partner and you’d panicked at the idea of word getting back to your mother. When he apologized, you both agreed to make your relationship “parent official” after a year. There goes _that_.  His second offense wasn’t really even wholly his fault. You ended things out of sheer embarrassment when Cor Leonis was in the wrong place at the wrong time and you genuinely prayed for Ramuh to end you right then and there. Gladio forgot to double-check the door’s lock.  Exhibitionism is risky business. Gladio’s laughter immediately after did him no favors. But this? 

This is so much different because you don’t have the perceived moral high ground; because you’re so obviously in the wrong and Gladiolus had looked so hurt... The way his brow had creased and your words had left him speechless. Those thoughtless declarations were left hanging in the air between you, his eyes started to glisten, and then he turned away.  You’d unwittingly treaded too close to an unknown insecurity. 

Again, misunderstandings and embarrassment are your downfall. Lashing out to save face isn’t productive or fair. You’re learning that lesson the hard way and you can’t wait around for Gladio to realize that you made a mistake. It’s time for you to own up to what you said and apologize despite your fear of confrontation.  You thank the Six that Uncle Reggie let you have the scooter Magister Drusa offered you because you don’t have to ask him to borrow the Regalia to go on your little quest for self-improvement -- well, _one small step_ toward self-improvement. It’s nighttime when you mount up before you can psych yourself out of it. 

It’s the longest drive of your life despite Gladio’s apartment not even being five minutes away with light traffic. The road is slick and black from rain, streetlights like orange flares the further you get away from the light pollution of the Citadel. Though you allow yourself to be the tiniest bit hopeful, you aren’t expecting him to take you back.  Need to remind yourself of this again and again as you climb the stairs of that cramped stairwell (avoiding the rats), legs feeling like lead the closer you get to the fifth floor. The stairs are taken for an obvious reason. The elevator will have you _confronting_ too soon. As it stands, you’re already a bundle of nerves by the time you jam the buzzer. 

There’s a faint sound of movement behind the door, an obvious pause of silence, before the door opens and you’re being stared down by the tall brunet. Amber eyes are like fire framed by dark lashes. Though he’s putting up a wonderful front, you can see he’s tense. “What? Here to ask this lowlife to change his mind ‘cause you’re the best he’ll ever have?” 

Uh... The hell? Not to nitpick or start another argument, but you _never_ said anything to that effect. You don’t comment on that possible insecurity. You’re not here to grill him, after all. You’re here to accept responsibility for your words and apologize for them. And you suck it up, smother your curiosity, and say just that.  “I’m not here to ask you to take me back, Gladiolus. I’m here to apologize.”  


He leans against the doorframe, crosses his muscular arms across his chest. “Oh, yeah?” 

Gaze flickers over him, taking him in for the first time since he opened the door. So consumed by anxiety, you didn’t realize his getup. Ratty sweats and a stained undershirt? Uneven facial hair and bags under his eyes? Six, he doesn’t wear “break up” all that well. It sends a pang of regret shooting through your gut.  You bite your lip. “Can I come in?” 

Gladiolus watches you a moment longer, gaze simmering, before stepping aside and allowing you inside his apartment. You blatantly ignore the ramen containers stacked on the kitchen counter. Almost joke that your quarters look a bit haphazard as of late, too. Gladio sits heavily on the single couch in his living room but you remain standing.  Standing here before him feels like you’re on a stage in front of a massive crowd. 

Taking a tentative breath to quiet your nerves, you start, “Gladiolus, I’m sorry. What I said-” You sigh just thinking about it, “I understand that it was cruel and I’m sorry that I hurt you like that and made it seem like I thought you were beneath me. Can I explain what the issue was that I botched so horribly?” 

“Go on,” he grumbles, leaning back further into the couch, brow still furrowed. 

“It wasn’t just that you left your underwear in my room.” You can feel your face heating up. Shit. You tell yourself not to joke around or try to find an out in some other way even as you burn in shame. “Noct found it.” 

The tips of his ears are a little red. “Wait. The ones that had-” 

“Yeah,” you interrupt hastily, totally forgetting that you’re supposed to be polite when that godsawful memory rears back up. “He was surprisingly cool about it. I mean, I think I saw his soul ascend, but he didn’t hassle me over it. Still, I lashed out because I was mortified and I know that was inappropriate. I was stupid.” 

“You bet you were.” Gladiolus cracks a smirk and your heart squeezes. See? Not the end of the world. Nor will it ever be. Baby steps. You almost sigh in relief when he crooks his finger at you and drawls, “Apology accepted. Now, c’mere. Was my little mage embarrassed?” 

Eyes roll dramatically, going from uneasy to your usual snarky self in a heartbeat with him. “Oh, shut up! That was a heartfelt apology! I’m here with egg on my face and then you go and smear it around!” Though you’re griping, you’re making your way over to him where he pulls you down onto his lap and buries his face in your neck. 

“How the hell are you so damn bad at dealing with shame that you turn _that_ into _that_?” He flicks your forehead and squeezes you close. “Gotta work on that, Magey.” 

“Yeah, I will. But mostly for _my own_ sake,” you tease, though this growth will certainly be for your sake. Fingers run through his hair and you frown when you realize it’s oily. Best not comment just yet. Or at least approach it tactfully. You tug at the ends of his hair. “How do _you_ do it?” 

Broad shoulders shrug. “Always go into tough situations with a clear head. Meditate on it or do somethin’ else to get level so you don’t say anything you might regret.” 

“And that works for you?” When he nods, you raise an eyebrow. “ _Really_?” 

He can feel your silent judgment. Cheeks slowly turn pink. “Most of the time.” 

A few weeks later, as you’re dicing dandelion root, your vision goes black. Unamused, you tug the fabric off of your head and stare at the tracksuit in your hands. It’s crimson with white stri- No way. The stripes are sequined and there’s a sequined white heart on the left breast. Now more unamused than ever, you turn to the giant dork behind you and an involuntary laugh rips right out of you.  Gladio grins, looking dapper in a matching tracksuit. “Happy six month anniversary.” 

“Nobody celebrates a six month anniversary,” you drawl, hugging the godsawful clothing to your chest, forgetting all about the potion you were in the middle of concocting. 

Dark brows knit together in a scowl and Gladiolus crosses his arms. “Yeah, they do. People do it all the time.” 

“Uh, no they don’t, you dork.” 

“ _Uh_ , yeah they do, Magey.” 

This goes on for a bit longer, with you whipping out your phone to look up the legitimacy of a six month anniversary (“ _Middle school kids_ do it, Gladdy. Gosh, you’re so lame... But thank you.”), before Gladio tells you to can it and try on the tracksuit (“So I can see if it fits... Y’know? Try it without underwear first. _What_? What’s that look for? Underwear might make it fit weird...”).


End file.
